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IN THE FOOTSTEPS 
O F BOONE= 


AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE OF 
PIONEER DAYS IN KENTUCKY 


GARRETT M. DAVIS 


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WASHINGTON, D. C. 

THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 

431 ELEVENTH STREET 
MCMIII 




THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

JUN 12 1903 

N /Copyright Entry 

tUsS J\ XXc. No. 

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V COPY B. 


COPYRIGHT, 1903 
BY 

GARRETT M. DAVIS 






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To E. R. D. 


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sheer of full many a quicksand and shoal 





IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE 


CHAPTER I 

On a slight elevation of ground, looking 
westward, while his mind traveled into the 
future and his imagination endeavored to pict- 
ure .the land lying on the other side of the 
mountain range, stood a youth in the full vigor 
of young manhood, presenting an example of 
manly beauty quite common at that day in the 
great valley of western Virginia, walled in on 
the one side by the Blue Ridge and on the other 
by the Alleghany mountains. 

As he stood with his left arm resting at an 
acute angle on the muzzle of his long, slim- 
barrelled rifle, his chin thrust forward and sup- 
ported by the arm, he might have been an inter- 
esting study for an artist. 

In his belt, which was tied behind, was a 
strong, well-sharpened knife, cased in its leather 
sheath, hanging at his left side. Suspended 
from his right was the indispensable hatchet or 
tomahawk. 


8 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


His hunting shirt was of dressed deer skin, 
the bosom being constructed in such a manner 
as to serve as a wallet in which might be car- 
ried bread and jerked meat sufficient to last for 
several days, and the tow with which to wipe 
his rifle barrel. 

His leggins were made of the same material, 
and these, with the cap of fur surmounted by a 
buck’s tail, completed his attire. 

Of course the powder horn and bullet pouch 
in the front part of the belt were not wanting, 
for he was prepared to start on a long and ven- 
turesome journey, and he had just taken a last 
look at the familiar scene before night set in. 

I have thus described him at length, for it is 
predestined that those who follow this story to 
the end shall know him better than at the begin- 
ning of it. 

On the morrow he and two companions 
would make an early start to join a company 
under the command and direction of Captain 
James Harrod, who had started from Pennsyl- 
vania with a few followers, recruiting his ranks 
in Maryland and Virginia, until it now num- 
bered some forty men. They were about to 
journey down the Ohio seeking a location in 
which, eventually, to make homes in that new 
land beyond the mountains. 

• History tells us that at this time, 1774, the 
country along the James 'River in Virginia was 
well settled and that civilization had even 
pushed its way into the Shenandoah valley ; that 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 9 

wealth and a degree of luxury and refinement 
distinguished the life of the people in many 
parts of the old colony, and that education was 
found in no small degree among the inhabit- 
ants of the towns and in the families of the 
landed proprietors. 

The owners of vast estates were the almost 
absolute rulers of their respective domains, as 
were also the smaller landed gentry in lesser de- 
gree, though they had their Governor and 
House of Burgesses to make and execute the; 
general laws. Of course the majority of these 
were well content and satisfied with their sur- 
roundings so far as they had to do with their 
social and domestic concerns, nevertheless the 
spirit of adventure was still alive among them, 
and in many instances the desire to better their 
worldly prospects was pretty lively in their 
midst, especially among the younger sons and 
among those whose lines had been cast in less 
pleasant places. Thus it happened that there 
were those, not only in the colony of Virginia, 
but also in the neighboring colonies, who were 
from time to time induced to undertake the per- 
ilous journey further westward into that com- 
paratively unknown land, and among the ear- 
liest of them was Captain Harrod and his little 
party. 

Let us pause a moment, standing by the side 
of the young man in hunter’s garb, and turn 
our eyes to the west also. 

Through that distant range of mountains 
and up toward the north the beautiful river, the 


10 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


Ohio, cuts its way and seeks the bosom of the 
Father of Waters. Down toward the south, 
beyond our vision, the rocks have been rent 
asunder and the mountains stand aside to let the 
van of civilization pass. Beyond the misty blue 
of this mountain wall, which broadens for many 
miles to the rolling country beyond, the army 
of progress has later found a land flowing with 
milk and honey, and has pitched its tents along 
cooling streams and laid its paths in pleasant 
^places. 

Good Queen Bess never added a rarer gem to 
her royal diadem than that land which later on 
the mother, Virginia, gave to the sisterhood of 
States and called Kentucky. 

Had I the pen of a poet and were the Muses 
propitious, I might picture to you in words 
the beauties of the majestic forests, the graceful 
windings of the frequent streams, the sparkling 
of the waters in the sunlight, the varied tints of 
the myriad flowers, the wave-like motion of the 
blue grass, the wonders of this land which 
stretched from the mountains, over hill and 
dale, through forest and plain, abounding in 
lovely landscapes, blessed with a soil rich in 
promise, beneath whose bosom lay untold 
wealth in undisturbed profusion ; this land 
stretches even until it reaches the great artery 
which runs through the body of this great 
country. 

Here, shortly before the period at which this 
story begins. Dame Nature ruled with a sway 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


II 


whose calm was only disturbed by the visits of 
her own children in human form, armed for the 
chase or for the deadlier conflict with their own 
kind. 

We know not for how many hundreds of 
moons these forests had echoed to the shout of 
the Indian hunter as he pursued the panting 
deer, or for how many years the Red warriors 
had here met in the death struggle. 

Even in those days it seems to have been a 
border land, a land set apart and distinct, one 
over which no people or tribe exercised exclu- 
sive sovereignty, a land waiting to be claimed. 

If it were permissible in a story like this to 
linger and speculate, one might wonder indeed 
at the hints found buried in the mounds scat- 
tered over this great hunting ground of a more 
advanced civilization, and of one of greater an- 
tiquity than that found to exist among the 
North American Indians since the white man 
first made his acquaintance. But we dare not 
pause for fear that the fascination of the sub- 
ject might cause us to forget our story and thus 
incur the displeasure of the patient reader at the 
outset. 

Into this land came first from the East, from 
across the mountains, a few venturesome spirits 
from the white man’s settlements, hunting, 
prospecting, and sometimes trading with the 
Indians, and thence returning whence they 
came, with pelts, with stories of adventure, and 
with wonderful tales of the beauty of the coun- 
try and of the fertility of the soil. Later others 


12 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


came who essayed to take possession and claim 
sovereignty over this unoccupied territory. 

Among the first of these was a man from Old 
North State, in the prime of life, whose in- 
trepid spirit and sterling character made him a 
conspicuous leader among the sturdy pioneers 
and endeared him to his associates in the dan- 
gers of the life here. The history of Kentucky 
would be incomplete did not the name of Daniel 
Boone appear conspicuously in its pages, and no 
story told of those early days would be true un- 
less he figured to some extent at least in the tel- 
ling of it. 

Around that name clings a halo of romance, 
and when we attempt to read between the lines 
that chronicle the events of his remarkable 
career, the imagination fails to add much of in- 
terest to the actual facts. 

As the dweller in that fair land today walks 
on the firm but springy turf and looks out over 
the panorama of tobacco field, of corn and of 
wheat, of wooded hill and grassy plain spread 
before him ; as he sees in it all, a land of plenty 
and peace, his heart swells with a natural pride 
and he knows that it is good to dwell therein. 
Should his mind chance to take a retrospective 
glance and begin to make comparison of the 
things of the past and present ; should he allow 
his eye, in imagination, to follow the pages of 
the history of his State, one after another, be- 
ginning some hundred or more years ago, the 
legend, the story, the romance, and the song of 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 13 

pioneer days would all centre around the name 
of Boone, typifying in his mind the pioneer set- 
tler of Kentucky, and the picture of the hermit 
life in the cave in the cliffs of the Kentucky 
River would come very vividly before him, the 
cautious and silent tread of the moccasined 
feet as the hermit went forth in search of game 
for food, or visited his traps set to snare the fur- 
-bearing animals, the sharp report of his rifle 
sending its message of death^ the cunning 
and strategy which avoided the unequal con- 
flict, the hardships endured and the difficulties 
overcome, the predominance of the domestic 
traits of character, of the love of family which 
prompted him in the face of all dangers to 
iDring his wife and family from the old home 
to dwell with him, the father-love which in- 
duced him in the midst of savage foes to bear 
the stricken form of his son in his own stal- 
wart arms to a place of safety where he might 
die on that father’s breast and feel the sympa- 
thetic heart-throbs as his life passed away ; that 
same love and courage which at another time 
sent him forth from Boonesborough fort to 
rescue a daughter from certain shame and 
death, the sound opinion and advice which 
found rugged expression and caused his words 
to be listened to in the first council of the em- 
bryonic Commonwealth ; the strong, honest 
and manly character which placed him among 
the leaders in those early days not only in war, 
but in peace, all this and much more would 


14 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

come before his mind’s eye, and in his heart 
of hearts stands a monument erected to the 
memory of the heroic men and women who 
crossed the mountains and found a land of 
promise and left it a rich heritage for all time 
to their children and to their children’s chil- 
dren. Yes, this monument and the names in- 
scribed on it are a part of the heritage, and it 
is of these early days and of these people that I 
wish to tell my story. 

It is not my desire or province to trace the 
historical or political events which culminated 
in the admission of Kentucky as a State into 
the great American Union; but merely to fol- 
low the general course of events as they have a 
bearing on the lives of a few individuals dwell- 
ing in that section of the country which is with- 
in the territory out of which that State was 
formed, as we see them in the daily walks of 
life, and as illustrating the progress of events 
and the advancement of civilization in that 
land. 

It is the mission of the historical novel as the 
author understands it — and he dares entertain 
the hope for this little story, that it may fairly 
claim a small interest in such mission— to tell of 
individual happenings in such manner as to be 
consistent with the general progress of events, 
to keep pace with the times and thus to illus- 
trate, in individual instances, the manner of liv- 
ing, the character of the people as influenced 
by surroundings and existing conditions during 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 1 5 

a given period of time and in a particular local- 
ity, so that the reader may be induced to take a 
more personal interest in the narrative and re- 
tain a more lasting impression of facts than 
could be expected of him from reading a merely 
historical or chronological statement of them. 

If the pen of the narrator is skillful enough 
to make the reader feel that he has a personal 
acquaintance with the actors in the scenes de- 
picted, and that they are real flesh and blood, 
living, moving fellowmen and women, having 
the same passions and ruled by the same ambi- 
tions as ourselves, it seems to the author that 
this would so fix his sympathy and interest that 
he would not easily forget the things told of 
them, and that thus, in pleasant form, he would 
be studying history. 


CHAPTER II 


June Stone, the young man we left standing 
leaning on his rifle, had heard of the adventures 
of Boone and his brother, he had listened with 
bated breath to the stories of hair-breadth es- 
capes from the Indians, had learned of the 
abundance of game, of the beauty of the 
country and of the fertility of the soil, had 
become enamored of the accounts of the free- 
dom of the life, had learned with absolute cer- 
tainty that almost any quantity of land could be 
obtained without any appreciable expenditure 
of money, had listened to these things until his 
very soul was imbued with the idea that here 
was his chance. 

Being a young man of a thoughtful turn of 
mind he looked far into the future which was 
somewhat rose-tinted just then perhaps, nev- 
ertheless one in which he thought that he could 
see enough of practicality to bring his hopes 
within the realm of possibility; but he had ex- 
perience enough in his pursuit of game and in 
the occasional encounters with the Indians tem- 
porarily in that section of the country to know 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 1 7 

that it was an arduous and dangerous under- 
taking which the little band of men was about 
to begin, still, like the others, he was willing to 
risk it. 

The next day Stone and his companions 
joined Captain Harrod, and the party began 
their march down the Ohio to what was even 
then known as The Dark and Bloody Ground. 
After some little time they reached a point on 
the Ohio River where Louisville now stands; 
but shortly concluded to move further into the 
interior, induced to do so on account of the 
proximity of the Indian tribes dwelling north 
of the river, and being fearful of the ease with 
which these savages could come down upon 
them in numbers and interfere very materially 
with any little domestic arrangements they 
might make in that immediate neighborhood. 
So they proceeded to seek a place of compara- 
tive safety, and went south and east until the 
vicinity of Salt and Dick’s Rivers was reached, 
and here they pitched their camp and deter- 
mined to stay. Here, near a large spring, they 
laid off the first town in Kentucky, and began 
the first permanent settlement, though they 
were before a great while forced to abandon it 
until March, 1775. 

Harrod then returned with another party, 
bringing with him, however, some of those 
who had followed him hither the year before, 
and among them our acquaintance, June Stone. 
During the spring they began the erection of 


1 8 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. ’ 

cabins, assisting each other in the work. For 
the sake of safety they were forced to build ' 
their houses very near each other, and for con- 
venience each man was allowed a lot of ground 
consisting of half an acre^on which to build his i 
cabin, with an out lot of five or ten acres attach- 
ed. When these cabins were completed they 
were joined together by stockades, thus form- 
ing a fort which was quite formidable against 
attacks with small arms. 

Some of the men went into the woods near 
by and began to fell trees and prepare the logs \ 
for the sides of the houses and cut the clap- ‘ 
boards for the roofing. The sound of the axe 
and the crash of falling timber was heard from 
early morning until darkness drove the toilers 
to the camp fires and into the temporary huts. 
During these busy days many a mighty mon- 
arch of the forest bent its proud head and fell 
prostrate at the feet of those sturdy pioneers, 
submissive to their will. 

Stone was in stature somewhat below the 
medium height, with broad shoulders and wide 
chest, very compactly built, with muscles of 
steel and well-formed limbs. 

Being skilled to some extent in the rough car- 
pentering possible in the circumstances, he and 
a man named Beatty were chosen to complete 
the inside work in the Captain’s house and to 
make the furniture for the same. So after the 
material for the house had been gotten together 
and the '‘house raising” accomplished and the 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 1 9 

roofing put on, Stone and Betty first carefully 
prepared a clapboard to serve as a door and 
placed it in position. They then made a table, 
which consisted of a split slab supported by 
four round legs set in auger holes. Afterwards 
some three-legged stools were made, which, al- 
though not quite so comfortable as the Morris 
chair of today, answered every purpose for 
which they were intended. The two young men 
then made a bed and placed it in position. This 
was done by putting a fork of a young tree, 
cut to suit, with its lower end in a hole in the 
floor and its upper end fastened to a joist, and 
placing a pole in the fork with one end through 
a crack in the wall. They then crossed this with 
another and shorter pole, with its outer end 
through another crack in the wall, and put 
boards from the longer pole with the other 
ends of the boards resting in a crack in the wall 
at the end of the house. Upon these boards they 
put a sack filled with dry grass and leaves, to 
serve as mattress, and spread several blankets 
over this, making a bed whose invitation to 
tired limbs was not to be resisted. 

Not yet content with what they had done, 
they proceeded to put up pegs in various places 
along the walls on which to hang different arti- 
cles belonging to the household arrangements, 
also making a rack for the rifle to rest in, and 
shelving for the few knives and forks and 
dishes which the Captain had brought with him. 
When it was all finished they showed it, with 


20 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


much pride, to Captain Harrod, who was much 
pleased with their efforts in the house decora- 
ting line. He had just returned from a short 
hunting and prospecting tour, and had brought 
back with him, tied to the skirt of his saddle, a 
nice mess of squirrels, so he invited the two 
boys to take dinner with him the next day. 
They did dine with him, and he served them 
a very appetizing stew. In such manner the 
men worked until all were housed and the best 
arrangements possible made for their comfort. 

As time went on the little town received ac- 
cessions from the older settled parts of the 
country. Traders came, bringing with them 
for barter and sale, certain articles appertaining 
to the more civilized life in the east, so that in a 
few years the settlement was in quite comfort- 
able circumstances and began to wear an air of 
importance. In fact, three years later it had a 
population of two hundred souls, of which 
number twenty-five were women ; and a number 
of children played in the streets and around 
the block house, or fort, and carried water for 
their mothers from the spring quite near the 
town, and I have no doubt some of them often 
lay in ambush around the spring and surprised 
the others with a sudden rush upon them, while 
they rent the air with the mimic war whoop of 
the savages. Stone and Beatty being both un- 
married men, built themselves a cabin, in which 
they lived together for companionship. 

Captain Harrod was a man of commanding 
appearance and of undaunted courage, and was 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OP BOONE. 


21 


the acknowledged leader in this little commu- 
nity for a long time, not only by unanimous 
choice, but by the logic of events. He was gen- 
tle as web as brave, and all complaints were 
made to him, and all disputes referred to his ar- 
bitration. The men all loved and respected him 
for his noble traits of character, and June Stone 
had become very much attached to him. Har- 
rod recognized in Stone much 'that attracted 
him, and stone loved him as his friend, his 
councilor, and his leader. 

Physical strength and courage were no where 
and at no time more necessary or more respect- 
ed than among the pioneers of Kentucky; and 
when these virtues were united to soundness of 
judgment and coolness in the face of danger, 
when resourcefulness was shown in vexed situ- 
ations, they met with prompt recognition. Both 
Harrod and Stone possessed this combination, 
in different degrees perhaps, still each saw it in 
the other and thus they were mutually attracted. 

Captain Harrod was fond of hunting and of 
the chase, and spent much of his time in the 
woods, where Stone was frequently his com^ 
panion. From one of these trips Harrod never 
returned, and it is believed that he met his death 
at the hands of the Indians, but this was some 
time afterwards. 

All the while that the cabins were being built, 
timber was being prepared with which to erect 
a fort, and certain men were detailed to begin 
the building of it. Corn was also planted dur- 
ing this year, and some of the settlers brought 


21 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


their wives and families to Harrodstown, which 
was the name given to this little settlement. We 
find the names of Mrs. Denton, Mrs. McGary 
and Mrs. Hogan among the first females to take 
up their residence at this place. There was but 
one other town in Kentucky at this time which 
could rival it, and that was Boonesborough, 
where Daniel Boone, with his family, had loca- 
ted. 

Harrod was absent from the little frontier 
post, which he had started in 1774, until the 
next year, as we have stated. In fact, the place 
was practically deserted until the next year dur- 
ing the summer. 

Stone and Beatty both returned with Har- 
rod and remained in Harrodsburg, and put in a 
crop of corn together. They often hunted to- 
gether, sometimes going as far as the Blue Lick 
Spring in search of buffalo, which were then 
plentiful in Kentucky, being attracted espec- 
ially to that neighborhood by the salt which is 
a part of the composition of the water of this 
spring, even today so celebrated throughout the 
length and breadth of the land. 

The buffalo was desired as game on account 
of its usefulness as food, and because its hide 
could be utilized in various ways to subserve the 
comfort and necessities of the early settler. 
These two companions became very expert 
hunters of the animal, and it was interesting to 
note the tactics employed by them, almost in- 
variably with marked success. They would. 


In the Footsteps of boone. 23 

for instance, approach as near as possible to the 
herd at the lick, jumping from tree to tree, from 
rock to rock, from bush to bush, crawling noise- 
lessly, stealthily as they approached, until they 
were in fair rifle shot, and then each picking out 
his animal, almost simultaneous shots would 
ring out on the air, and the now frightened herd 
would start at breakneck speed down the incline 
toward the river, or in another direction and 
into the woods. But just as quickly the two 
hunters, who were both swift of foot, would 
start in pursuit, running well up with the herd 
along its side, firing and loading and firing 
again as they ran, bringing down an animal 
at almost every shot, until they were outwinded 
and the maddened game dashed out of sight 
and into safety. 

They very seldom, however, killed ifiore than 
they thought that they could carry away with 
them, although sometimes they could only cut 
out the tongues and take them back. Their re- 
turn was alaways welcomed by those left at 
home, for the meat was distributed among the 
more needy of their fellow townsmen after re- 
serving sufficient for their own needs. In fact, 
the best hunters were often sent out from the 
various settlements to procure meat for the 
post. It was for only three or four years that 
the buffalo stood this kind of treatment, and 
then he crossed the Mississippi and returned 
not aerain in numbers to Kentucky. 


CHAPTER III 


During the winter work was commenced on 
the fort, for which the men had been preparing 
material for some time, and it was completed 
early in the spring of 1776. 

Stone and Beatty were still living together, 
and had the previous summer planted a good- 
sized crop of corn, and had in fact extended 
their farming operations considerably. Their 
crop beings gathered and put into the log crib 
and covered with a roof of boughs and corn 
stalks, and their garden truck put into the 
cabin, June bethought him one morning that a 
piece of nice juicy venison steak would not go 
badly; so he suggested to his companion that 
one or both of them should go forth and try to 
kill a deer. Beatty had some chores about the 
house he wanted to finish that day, so it was 
decided that Stone should procure the meat, if 
possible, and that Beatty should cook it when it 
was brought in. Deer and wild turkeys were 
plentiful then and June did not anticipate much 
difficulty in procuring something for the larder. 
He was a splendid marksman, and by this time 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 25 

knew the country for miles a round the settle- 
ment, and was also a great hunter and usually 
a very successful one. 

He was now the proud possessor of a horse, 
which he often rode on his excursions to the 
woods. This animal he had trained to stand 
wherever he left him and to come to his master 
when whistled for, which arrangement was 
very convenient, especially after the game was 
shot and must be taken sometimes a long dis- 
tance to his cabin. On this particular morning 
he mounted his horse, laying his rifle across the 
animal’s crupper, and started on his quest. A 
slight snow had fallen the day before so that 
the game could be easily tracked. The Indians 
had not been seen or heard of in the vicinity for 
some weeks past, and this was one reason that 
June had for venturing forth alone. * 

It was a little before daylight when he started 
up Salt River, where the ground was somewhat 
broken, and where he thought the younger 
growth of the trees would afford many excel- 
lent resting places for the deer seeking a night’s 
lodging beneath its branches and among the 
still standing tuft of grass. Here, too, some of 
the leaves were still green and the young twigs 
retained their sap, on which the deer might 
make his early breakfast before washing it 
down with the water of the convenient stream. 

He rode on and on, crossing and recrossing 
the river, which was not very deep, never going 
more than half a mile from its banks, first on 


26 IN FOOtSTEPS OF BOONE. 

one side and then on the other, keeping a sharp 
lookout for game and also against surprise by 
the savage foe who might be lurking l>ehind 
some tree and waiting even then to pounce upon 
him. He continued to travel in this way until 
he had left the settlement some five or six miles 
behind, when he dismounted and began to hunt 
more cautiously. Presently he came upon the 
bed lately occupied by a deer. It was now broad 
daylight, and in the snow he saw the tracks of 
the animal leading from place to place where it 
had stopped to graze, until they finally led to 
the river, and following cautiously he soon came 
in sight of a fine buck standing with his fore- 
hoofs in the water and in act of drinking. 

June was well hidden by a clump of bushes, 
and pearing through them and along the barrel 
of his rifle, he took deliberate aim just a little 
behind the left shoulder. At this moment his 
horse, which he had left standing when he had 
begun following the trail, gave a neigh, and 
the deer startled, at the unusual sound, quickly 
raised his head and sniffed the air suspiciously, 
at the same time giving a stamp with his fore- 
hoof. 

Ah, he was a magnificent sight as he stood 
thus a moment before darting off, but he never 
consciously lifted the other foot, for at this 
moment the leaden messenger of death entered 
his heart, and if he heard the sharp report that 
heralded its flight it was too late to have given 
him warning. He sank noiselessly to the 


IN tHE FOOTStEPS OF BOONE. 27 

ground, with one reproachful glance from those 
big, pathetic eyes, as June leaned over him, and 
they closed forever. 

There is not much room for sentiment in the 
life of a frontiersman, but June used to say that 
he never looked into the eyes of a dying deer 
without regret, and without thinking of some 
innocent child. Who stops, though, to think of 
the pathetic eyes, or the harmlessness and inno- 
cence of the victim, when the excitement of the 
hunt is on, or when the white tail of the deer 
is seen rising and falling amid the brown leaves 
of the scrub oaks as the animal bounds from 
place to place in his headlong flight? Or who 
pauses before pressing the trigger after the eye 
has glanced along the barrel of the gun and has 
sought the spot covered by the sight ? It is after 
this that reflection comes. 

June whistled to his horse, and the faithful 
animal came trotting up, apparently very much 
interested in the result of the shot. Throwing 
the carcass of the deer across the horse’s crup- 
per, June sprang upon his back and started to 
return home. 

After he had proceeded some distance, and 
was probably within two miles of the settle- 
ment, and while riding leisurely along over an 
open piece of ground not a great distance from 
the river, through a small valley formed by the 
ridges between which the river ran, the sharp 
crack of a rifle shot sounded, coming appar- 
ently from the rise to the right about fifty yards 


28 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

off. The next instant June’s horse plunged for- 
ward and fell, bringing his rider down with 
him. In the fall his rifle was loosened from his 
grasp and fell to the ground just beyond his 
reach. At the same instant an Indian came 
running down the incline toward him, with 
knife in hand, having thrown his rifle to the 
ground as he ran. 

Almost simultaneously another Indian start- 
ed on the run toward June, with his rifle, still 
loaded, in his hand. With exultant whoop he 
came on from the bank of the river behind 
which he had been hiding. Evidently both In- 
dians thought that Stone had been wounded, 
and they could see that his rifle was not in his 
hand. But as a matter of fact he had not been 
touched, though his horse had been killed. 

As quick as thought Stone took in the situa- 
tion. He must recover his own rifle and try to 
dispatch, first, the Indian who still had pos- 
session of his, and then resort to the knife and 
grapple with the other in a hand-to hand en- 
counter to the death. 

It seemed a desperate chance, but June was 
in a desperate strait. He must act quickly ; one 
moment’s hesitation would be fatal. No thought 
of surrender or of entering a plea for mercy 
came into his mind for a moment. He knew too 
well the character of the foe he had to deal with, 
knew that any such plea would be useless, and 
that surrender meant the loss of his scalp, so he 
determined to sell his life, if must be that, as 
dearly as possible. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 29 

It is something we all know, some of us from 
what we have been told and from what we have 
read, others of us from what we have experi- 
enced, and still others of us from all these 
sources — that the human mind acts with light- 
ning-like rapidity on occasion in great crises, 
in moments of mortal danger, and we have been 
told that when death is close upon us we recol- 
lect many things long forgotten. 

W e are told that all the little mean things we 
have ever done pass in panoramic view before 
our mental vision, and that some of the good 
things we have done are seen also. We re- 
member the prayer, even the rudest of us, that 
we used to say at our mother’s knee; we again 
feel the touch of the kind and loving fingers as 
they were wont to stroke our hair or tuck the 
bed clothes tightly and snugly around us; and 
the nightly kiss, too, some of us — oh, thank 
God ! yes, many of us do. And her prayer, 
which hovers around our lives, alas, is some- 
times almost the only benediction we have 
known. “Now I lay me down to sleep” was 
the prayer that arose to the Great White 
Throne from the lips of the buffalo hunter on 
the Western plains, as he lay in the dust be- 
neath the flashing eye of the enraged and 
wounded bull, the points of the murderous 
horns just touching his breast. Can we say that 
this was not sufficient? At any rate, it saved 
his life. 


30 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

With an effort as quick as it was effectual, 
June Stone extricated his foot from its entan- 
glement with the body of the horse and the car- 
cass of the deer, and reached far out and grasp- 
ed his rifle. Then rapidly turning onto his 
stomach and resting on his elbow, he raised his 
gun and took aim at the Indian who still had 
his rifle, and pulled the trigger. They were 
only about twenty feet apart now, and the 
weapon in the hands of Stone and that in the 
hands of the Indian flashed fire at the same 
time. The Indian jumped high into the air at 
the report, gave a yell of rage and pain, and 
then came down in a heap to the ground, al- 
most within arm’s length of the white man. 
The Indian had not stopped running when he 
shot, so he missed his mark. Stone knew, of 
course, that his rifle was now of no use against 
the other Indian, as he would not have time to 
reload it, so casting it aside he sprang to his 
feet and jerked his hunting knife from its 
sheath. The Indian who had fired the first 
shot was now almost upon him, only the body 
of the horse being between them, and over this 
he sprang, burning to avenge the death of his 
comrade. Now the white man and the red man 
closed in a deadly embrace. The Indian was 
taller than June; not so compactly built, not 
more wiry, perhaps, but with this advantage, 
he was almost naked, and it was difficult to get 
and hold a grip on his body or limbs. By this 
time Stone was fighting With desperation, but 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 3 1 

was still cool. He was fighting for his life and 
he knew it full well. The Indian suddenly 
wrenched his right arm from Stone’s grip, rais- 
ed his knife high in the air to strike home, and 
the knife descended. 

Oh! that terrible moment. The eyes of the 
savage seemed to dart blue flame and the gleam 
of triumph shot from them. 

Merciful Providence, cannot some interven- 
tion save Stone? 

As quick as thought he let go the grip of the 
other hand which he had taken, and fell on his 
knees. The stroke of the Indian was descend- 
ing with such force that his own weight carried 
him over Stone’s body, and he fell beyond, and 
before he could recover himself. Stone was 
upon him and the struggle was continued on the 
ground. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Stone now managed to get his knife hand 
free, and gripped the Indian’s knife wrist with 
his left hand just as the red man made another 
savage lunge at his throat. The force of the 
thrust was thus broken and diverted, so that the 
knife merely grazed Stone’s neck, making a 
break in the skin, which was followed by a 
stream of blood, and the blade sank into the 
ground. 

Both men were panting and gasping for 
breath now, and were becoming exhausted 
with the violence of the struggle ; but this was 
the last effort of the savage, for before his ad- 
versary could raise his knife for a second 
thrust. Stone, by a superhuman effort, and with 
all the strength left in him, had sunk his blade 
into the Indian’s body between the ribs, and the 
red man’s death song was never sung on this 
side of the Happy Hunting Grounds. 

The Indian whom June had shot Was not 
killed, though terribly wounded, and during 
the struggle between June and his friend, had 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


33 


managed to crawl off some distance and load 
his rifle, and in the only interval in the fight of 
which he could take advantage, sitting with his 
back propped against the trunk of a tree, he had 
shot again at Stone, and had wounded him 
slightly in the shoulder. After this last effort, 
being weakened by the loss of blood, he had 
crawled further off and laid down in the under- 
growth to die. 

After Stone had dispatched his antagonist 
he stopped just long enough to wipe the blood 
from his knife blade and to regain his breath, 
and then he began to run for the fort. This he 
reached very soon, though considerably weak- 
ened from the loss of blood, and when he reach- 
ed the gate it was thrown open and- several men 
came forth to meet him. 

A pitiable sight he was with his hunting 
shirt torn almost to shreds and with dirt and 
mud smearing his leggins and moccasins, 
and blood trickling down from his neck and 
shoulders. Anxious and eager inquiries were 
made, for they had heard the shots in quick 
succession and were fearful that he had gotten 
into trouble ; but when he told them of his ter- 
rible struggle and of his victory they would not 
believe him, though they could see that he had 
been pretty roughly handled. 

Adventures with Indians were not of such 
uncommon occurrence as to be wondered at, 
and deeds of valor were quite frequent, but 
when June told them that he had defeated two 


34 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

Indians who were armed with rifles, they 
thought that he was “jollying them,” though 
they did not call it jollying in those days. 

When they had led him inside and assisted in 
washing and dressing his wounds in their rude 
but kindly manner, he proposed to guide any 
such as were really doubtful of his story to the 
scene of action. Accordingly half a dozen men 
returned with him in order to receive occular 
demonstration of the facts in the case. When 
they neared the spot where the fight had taken 
place they saw the dead body of the horse and 
the carcass of the deer, and also a few paces 
from them they saw an Indian lying with a 
gaping knife wound in his side. The body was 
covered with blood, a goodly quantity which 
had run to the ground and formed a puddle. 

But June had told them that two Indians had 
attacked him. Where was the other ? 

“Now,” said Stone, “I shot that Indian but 
I guess I did’nt kill him.” 

“Look here, though,” he continued presently, 
after having stepped some yards in the direc- 
tion of the river, at the same time pointing with 
his finger to the ground, “look at this trail of 
blood.” 

The others did look, and they saw and fol- 
lowed this trail, cautiously, for they did not 
know but that there might be more savages in 
ambush, or that the wounded Indian might not 
even yet be waiting for a shot at one of them. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 35 

They followed the traces of blood to the 
tree against which the Indian had propped him- 
self and had shot his last shot. Here there was 
more blood, the crimson stains tending in the 
direction of the river, and the ground in places 
looking as if it had been dragged with some 
bloody object. From thence the trail led to a 
small clump of bushes very near the stream, 
and there they found the body of the second In- 
dian, with no life in it, but with the rifle still 
grasped in the hands and with the ram-rod par- 
tially in the barrel. The Indian had died in the 
act of reloading his gun, silently, grimly heroic. 

We turn our astonished and bewildered fac- 
ulties from the contemplation of the story of 
the Spartan youth who would not cry out while 
the fox tore the flesh from his breast, and strive 
in vain to understand the stoicism of the North 
American Indian ! 

If any of my readers doubts the probability 
of this story he has but to read the annals of 
those days in order to And its parallel in au- 
thentic history. 

June was made quite a hero of after this 
exploit, for even among those hardy frontiers- 
men it was not at all frequent that a victory 
was gained at such odds. 


CHAPTER V. 


Let us now turn our thoughts for a time to 
the contemplation of more peaceful scenes. 

Quite frequently there occurred a lull in the 
tide of war, and the deadly encounter was 
quiet for a time in the building up of the more 
homely and domestic institutions, else how 
could these people have laid the solid founda- 
tion on which was built a lasting civilization ? 

Other venturesome spirits had led the van to 
different points, and Boonesborough, in Mad- 
ison county, and Lexington and Bryant’s Sta- 
tion in Fayette, had sprung into existence, and 
later on became noted in the early history of 
Kentucky; and different parties and individual 
families had spread out over the country, until 
gradually, to the north and west, they reached 
the Ohio. 

Of course as the settlements became larger 
and more numerous and it became safer to 
dwell in this new country, the wives and the 
mothers and daughters of these men came to do 
their part in the’ heroic struggle of progress in 
the wilderness. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 37 

Harrodsburg had its contingent of the fair 
sex, and not a few of the cabins showed in their 
interior arrangements especially, even amid 
those rude surroundings, the refining touches 
of feminine fingers. But was there ever a com- 
munity so rude that its roughness was not di- 
minished by the presence of a woman, its un- 
even places smoothed down by her magic 
touch ? 

Tell me, you reader of history, you student 
of mental philosophy, you searcher of the 
human mind and of the human heart, you in- 
terpreter of the emotions of the heart and of 
the causes of its actions, tell me, I pray you, 
from whence springs love between man and 
woman? Does environment have anything to 
do with it or its beginning? Think you that 
the telling of it by Mark Anthony sounded 
sweeter to the listening ears of Egypt's beauti- 
ful queen, arrayed in gorgeous apparel and re- 
clining on pillows of eiderdown, than it did to 
the maiden in homespun garments as she 
caught the words of the same old story told by 
the man in deer-skin hunting shirt? 

One sweet summer evening, just at dusk, 
after a refreshing shower during the afternoon, 
June came upon a sight near the big spring, as 
he was returning from a stroll in the woods, 
which set him to thinking. On the trunk of a 
fallen tree sat two figures, one, that of a man, 
and the other, that of a woman. One arm of 
the man encircled the form of the woman, the 


38 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

head of the latter resting on the shoulder of the 
former. 

June paused just a moment to take in the sit- 
uation, then retraced his steps for some dis- 
tance, until he was far enough away to make 
his retreat, undiscovered, to his cabin. 

When he had prepared his frugal meal and 
had eaten it alone, for Beatty had not yet come 
in, he filled his pipe and sat silently smoking 
for nearly an hour, when he knocked the ashes 
from the bowl and prepared for bed. 

In a short time Beatty entered the cabin, 
softly whistling, and began to remove his 
clothing. 

“Hello, George, pleasant weather we are 
having,” remarked Stone in a somewhat matter 
of fact way. 

“Why, old man,” replied Beatty starting, 
“I thought you were asleep. Yes, it is too nice 
to turn in as soon as dark comes.” 

Soon after, Beatty was asleep, but June lay 
awake long after the regular breathing of his 
companion told that the real things of life had 
been lost to him in dreamland. 

In one of the more pretentious looking 
cabins not far from the big spring, and con- 
nected with the stockade, lived a young woman 
with her parents. She was very pretty and gen- 
tle withal, though plump and rosy and healthy, 
was admired by all the young men in the settle- 
ment, and by the old ones, too, for that matter, 
and even our friend June Stone had been smit- 


In the footsteps of boone. 39 

ten with her charms to some extent, but he had 
kept this to himself. 

He knew her, though, kenw her well; knew 
every twist and turn of her shapely head and 
neck, knew her comings and goings, knew that 
quite frequently she went at dusk to the big 
spring to draw water and fetch it to the cabin 
for her mother ; so that there was no mistaking 
the identity of the maiden he had seen at the 
spring in the gloaming, and he had not been 
housed with George Beatty for nigh on to two 
years without being able to recognize him even 
in the dark. 

June Stone had had some education, in fact 
he was better educated than the majority of 
his compatriots. He could read and write, had 
some knowledge of mathematics, and knew 
something of the history of the Colonies and 
also of that of the Mother Country. He had 
even been thrown with some of the best society, 
occasionally, in the settlements back in the East, 
so that he was not without his value to the new 
settlement in its organization and during its 
growth. He was a man of a thoughtful turn 
of mind and of many natural gifts, and was al- 
ways disposed to do the right thing and to bear 
himself in a generous, manly way toward those 
with whom he was brought in contact. 

Generousity and manliness were not lacking 
by any means among the early settlers of Ken- 
tucky, though they were uncouth and uneduca- 
ted in the main. Many instances of the display 


40 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

of the finest traits of character are matters of 
record, showing the greatest self-sacrifice, of 
the utmost delicacy of feeling and of self-re- 
nunciation. When Stone rose in the morning, 
the battle with self had been fought and an- 
other victory won, the renunciation was accom- 
plished, and when Beatty opened his eyes on 
the things of this world he was greeted by a 
hearty “good morning” from Stone. 

After they had eaten breakfast and had light- 
ed their pipes and were preparing to go about 
whatever duties were awaiting them, June came 
over to where Beatty was standing and extend- 
ed his hand to him, saying earnestly; 

“George I saw you and Mollie at the spring 
last night; and, old man, I wish you all the 
happiness in the v^orld.” 

Beatty was a good deal surprised, and some- 
what startled, at the unexpected greeting, for 
he did not know that Stone had seen so much. 
He knew, though, that Stone had been quite 
frequently to spend the evening at Enoch Cur- 
ry’s, and that once or twice June had carried 
the bucket of water from the spring for Mollie, 
so that he had suspected that Stone was also 
beginning to care for -her. 

George Beatty was an honest fellow, though 
uncouth and he did not know exactly how to go 
about broaching the subject to Stone. He 
would have preferred that there should have 
been an open and honest rivalry between them, 
if, as he feared. Stone also cared for her in the 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 4I 

way in which he did; but he also thought that 
there had not been enough of evidence brought 
before him as yet to justify him in any such 
assumption. 

As for Stone, what he had seen the evening 
before was the first thing to convince him that 
things had taken a serious turn with Mollie 
and George. 

Continuing, Stone said : 

“But, George, there is one thing I want to 
ask you, for Mollie is a nice, honest girl, and I 
am determined, whether it is my business or 
not, that no man around this settlement shall 
trifle with her. I care enough for her for that, 
and you know me, George, and you know that 
I am not talking just to hear myself talk, and 
that I am not threatening either, but that I 
mean just what I say, and I want to know if 
you are in earnest in this affair ? I am very fond 
of Mollie, and could have loved her with all my 
heart, but if she loves you and you honestly 
love her and mean to do the right thing by her, 
it is all right, and what I want to ask 3^ou — and 
I think I have a right to ask so much, after 
having made the admission that I have, regard- 
ing my feelings toward her — is, do you mean 
to marry her ?” 

At this moment the two men stood facing 
each other, looking squarely into each other’s 
eyes, and each trying to look into the other’s 
soul. Both were brave and neither flinched. 


42 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


Not a quiver of the eyelids disturbed the unfal- 
tering gaze of either. 

Then Beatty spoke impressively : 

“June Stone, you know me, too, and you 
knowi that I am about to speak the truth ; and 
you know more, and that is, that no man in this 
settlement — no, not even you — can ever make 
me afeard to tell the truth. I do love Mollie 
Curry, and I am goin’ to marry her, if I can. 
I did not know until last night that I had any 
chance with her; but now I am pretty sure I 
have, and I am glad that you spoke, for I have 
been a good deal troubled lately as to how you 
felt toward her, and if you and I both loved her, 
I wanted you to know how it was with me. I 
wanted to start square and to keep square with 
you in this matter, and so let her choose be- 
tween us.” 

The tightly drawn lines in June Stone’s face 
immediately relaxed, and grasping Beatty’s 
hand he said : 

“Just what I expected, George, but I wanted 
to hear you say so. You can count on me as 
your friend in this matter.” 

Then the two men, -after a hearty hand- 
shake, parted until meal time should bring them 
together again, with friendship more closely 
cemented and with greater mutual respect. 

Enoch Curry, Mollie’ s father, with his wife, 
daughter, and two sons composed the family. 
They were considered well-to-do. Mr. Curry 
had entered several hundred acres of land a few 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


43 


miles from the settlement, and lived, as we have 
stated, a short distance from the big spring in 
the settlement at Harrodsburg, in a double- 
story-and-a-half log cabin. Six or eight 
months before he had moved there with his 
family, and they had now made the place their 
permanent abode. He was very popular, and 
was one of the men relied on to fashion and to 
maintain the municipal government and its au- 
thority. 

Like the rest, he was somewhat uncouth in 
his speech and manners, but was manly and 
honest. He was fond of gathering the young 
men of the settlement around him on summer 
evenings in front of his door and talking to 
them on subjects of local interest and on those 
of larger importance; and, as quite frequently 
occurred, his pretty daughter was present, for 
short periods at least, so the young men were 
nothing loath to stop for a time. Thus it was 
that Mollie was thrown into the company of 
the men of the settlement, and became consider- 
able of a belle. 

Even the rumors of war with England came 
to them ; and later, when it was ascertained that 
England had called in the savage hordes dwell- 
ing north of the Ohio, who had been so trouble- 
some to the early settlers, as allies, and had 
armed them against the Colonies, the spirit of 
liberty and resistance to oppression, which had 
been inherited from these very English, became 
very marked among this people. 


44 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


For a long time the noise of the battle seemed 
far away, but when Girty appeared at their 
very doors with his hundreds of red warriors, 
backed by the authority of King George and 
the power of the British nation, and when 
Boone and Kenton, Logan and Trigg, Todd 
and George Rogers Clark began to bestir them- 
selves in opposition and to call on the settlers to 
rise in defense of their liberties and their 
firesides, the discussions became frequent and 
animated; nor was the rush to the rifle rack 
long delayed, and the squirrel tails in the caps 
began to be seen in numbers at the places of 
rendezvous. I draw attention to these things 
in order that the reader may understand that 
my story is not outstripping the pace set by his- 
toric development. 


CHAPTER VL 


About two miles from the settlement lived a 
man who had taken a piece of land and built a 
cabin on it. He came to that section of the 
country, nobody knew from whence, not long 
before the Currys did. He was a man appar- 
ently about thirty years old, and spent most of 
his time alone, often in the woods. He was of 
an unsociable nature, seldom being seen in the 
settlement or at the fort. No one liked him, in 
fact he was looked on with suspicion by many. 
People could not understand how it was that he 
was never molested by the Indians. 

Several times animals of one kind of another 
had mysteriously disappeared never to be seen 
again, but nothing definite enough to connect 
this man with the disappearances could be 
found, although various suspicious things had 
been noted. On one occasion a calf belonging 
to some one in the town had wandered off into 
the woods, and those going in search of it had 
traced it to within a few hundred yards of 
Smelty’s cabin, where the ground was marked 


46 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

quite deeply with the hoof tracks of the animal, 
and then it looked as if the ground had been 
dragged for some distance by the body. There 
were, however, no blood stains to be seen and 
the trail ended abruptly in the woods a few 
yards further on. No other trace of the animal 
had ever been found. 

The men engaged in the search had often 
traced the deer or the wild turkey in the snow 
and mud, but their wood-craft was at fault in 
this instance, and they had to acknowledge that 
they had only suspicions to go on. So they de- 
termined to wait and watch, but there were 
never any further clues found. 

Smelty had several times lately been seen in 
the settlement, and once or twice he had stopped 
to listen to the conversation in front of Mr. 
Curry’s door in the dusk of the evening, though 
he never ventured to take part in it. Society 
there was not so conventional as to require a 
formal introduction before it became permissi- 
ble to speak to individuals, or to take part in 
general conversations ; but Smelty did not want 
to talk, he wanted to listen. And if it suited 
his convenience to remain uncommunicative, 
no one seemed to object. 

It was several days after June had come 
Upon Mollie and George sitting together on the 
log at the srping, that he was returning from 
the woods, and when nearing the cabin he came 
suddenly upon a figure hurrying away from 
that vicinity. Instinctively he stepped to one 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


47 


side and lowered the muzzle of his rifle, at the 
same time placing his finger in position on the 
trigger. The figure which passed him was that 
of a man with squirrel tail in cap and with gun 
across shoulder, so seeing nothing unusual in 
this, June proceeded on his way. He did not at 
the time recognize the man, and thought no 
more about the incident. 

Several nights after this, when they had 
crawled into bed, Beatty said to June : 

“Say June, Mollie and me were sittin’ on 
that tree trunk Ty the spring tonight talkin’, an’ 
I notice that every once in awhile she’d look 
aroun’ kinder sudden an’ skeered like an’ she’d 
be shiverin’ when she looked back toward me, 
an’ would sigh as if somethin’ was bothering 
her. I couldn’t understand her manner, and 
so I asked her what was the matter; but she 
only shook her head. Now I suspect that 
something has been skeerin’ that girl. What 
do you make of it, June ?” 

“I don’t know,” answered Stone; “but we 
will keep our eyes open and see if we can find 
out.” 

Presently he asked abruptly : 

“George, was Mollie at the spring before you 
were?” 

George answered : 

“Yes, but I don’t know how long, exactly.” 

June began to think and to wander if the 
man he had seen hurrying away from the 
spring had anything to do with this matter. 


48 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

“Yes, by gum,” he said, to himself, “it was 
Smelty. Durn if I wouldn’t know that slouch 
in his left shoulder anywhere; but, dang it all, 
why Mollie wouldn’t look at him. I’ll watch 
him, though, and if I catch him up to any devil- 
try, there’ll be trouble for somebody ’round 
this settlement, that’s all.” 

June thought it best not say anything to 
Beatty concerning his suspicions, at least not 
for the present. He noticed that Mollie did 
her chores about the house as early as possible, 
and that she managed to go and return from 
the spring with her bucket before dusk. 

Nevertheless, from this time on he made one 
excuse or another to be at her father’s house or 
near it and the big spring quite often at the 
dose of day. He saw nothing, however, of 
Smelty, nor did he see anything further that 
was peculiar in Mollie’s actions. 

Time went on and George Beatty became a 
more frequent visitor at the Curry house. He 
had at first been rather chary of his visits, for 
he did not know how the father and mother 
would take them. At last, though, he began to 
cultivate the old gentleman’s company, and to 
.do little chores for the mother, v^hen he was 
around, and soon the shrewd old lady began 
to suspect that the real motive for these little 
attentions was love for her daughter; at the 
same time, she liked George for his own sake. 

One night, after the children were asleep, 
and Mollie had gone up to the attic, which was 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


49 


floored and made into quite comfortable sleep- 
ing apartments, Mrs. Curry said to her hus- 
band. 

'‘Enoch, have you noticed that George Beat- 
ty is coming pretty often to our house lately?” 

“Well,” answered the old man, “I had not 
thought much about it; but since you mention 
it, I believe he has dropped in more than once 
in the last few weeks.” 

“Have you ever seen him carrying buckets 
of water from the spring for Mollie?” again 
inquired his wife. 

“Yes,” he answered, “but I have seen June 
Stone doing the same thing, and Andy Cole- 
man, and several of the other boys, too.” 

“You did not know, though, that George 
drops in almost every day, some time during 
the day, and brings water from the spring for 
me, and puts my kettle on the fire, and some- 
times chops an armful of wood for the kitchen 
fire, did you ?” 

“No, I didn’t ; but George seems to be a nice 
boy, good-hearted and accommodating,” said 
he. 

“Yes,” she replied, “George is a nice boy, but 
you don’t think that he wants to be particularly 
nice to an old woman like me now, do you, 
Enoch?” 

“Look here, Martha,” ejaculated her hus- 
band — he only addressed her as Martha on rare 
occasions — “you are good enough and nice 
enough for any young feller, as far as that goes. 


50 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

but what are you driving at, I don’t seem to 
ketch on to your meaning?” 

“Now, Enoch, you just keep cool, and I’ll 
tell you what I mean. You’ve got a daughter, 
ain’t you, Enoch ; and she is eighteen years old 
now, and she is pretty, and the young feller that 
can get on the good side of the old folks knows 
that he would stand a better chance with her 
than if he did not stand in with her parents — 
see?” 

The old man started to his feet and began to 
pace the floor. 

“Is that what George Beatty has been com- 
ing ’round here for?” he asked in a considera- 
bly raised tone of voice. 

“Yes,” replied the wife, “and that is what 
they have all been coming around for; but 
don’t talk so loud, you’ll wake the children.” 

“My little Mollie, she’s too good and pretty 
for any of them.” 

He paused a moment, and then resumed. 
“But she is a woman; gosh, how time does 
fly!” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Curry, “she is as old as I 
was when you came a courting me, and it is 
natural that she should begin to think about 
such things.” 

“Has George — or Mollie — said anything to 
you?” asked he quickly. 

“No,” she replied, “but I have seen Mollie 
several times lately take her bucket and go to 
the spring for water, and George would come 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 5 I 

back with her carrying the bucket, and it took 
a pretty long time to fetch that bucket of water. 
And then I’ve seen them together oftener than 
you have and I’ve seen that they cared a good 
deal for each other, or I’ve forgotten the signs. 
George is a good, honest, industrious man and 
he has a hundred acres of land cleared out yon- 
der near the settlement, and he has a good crop 
in; and, father, we cannot choose who our 
children shall care for, we can only advise them 
and try and guard them against making mis- 
takes.” 

“Well, well, mother,” said Mr. Curry, “we’ll 
think it over in the meantime, and wait until 
the young folks speak. I can’t say anything 
against George, but now let’s go to bed, for 
I’ve got to haul a lot of wood tomorrow and 
must be up early.” 


CHAPTER VIL 


Some days after this Mollie took her bonnet 
one afternoon and told her mother that she 
would take a walk out toward Dick’s River, 
where her father was at work with some other 
men, and that perhaps she would wait and 
come home with them. “So, mother, you must 
not be worried if I do not get home early.” 

“Very well, daughter,” responded the 
mother, “do not stop until you are in sight of 
the men, and I’ll try and not worry.” 

Mollie’s mother knew that George Beatty 
and June Stone were working with the father 
on this day, and she surmised that her daugh- 
ter hoped to so manage it that George could 
walk home with her; and as everything had 
been quite peaceful for some time she saw no 
danger in allowing her daughter to go alone 
the comparatively short distance to where the 
men were at work. 

The day was very pleasant, though the early 
fall had come. The sky was blue and without 
a cloud. Many of the leaves on the trees had 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 53 

turned to crimson and yellow, and the squirrels 
were busily engaged in storing away their win- 
ter supplies. From that clump of sumach yon- 
der by the little rivulet the song of the red bird 
came to her ears as she passed along, its plum- 
age being scarcely distinguishable from the 
bright red berries that topped each branch of 
the shrub. Occasionally the shrill voice of Bob 
White, calling his flock together, was borne 
from a distance, penetrating the softness of the 
atmosphere. 

With graceful motion and agile step, though 
lingeringly, Mollie made her way through the 
woods toward her goal, for she was in no hur- 
ry, and she loved the woods and the day had a 
fascination for her. Her thoughts dwelt some- 
what on the present, but more on the immediate 
future, for George had told her that he loved 
her, and had asked her to be his wife. 

Did she love George? 

Ah, there came to her a light that had lighted 
the world for her, and had beautified every- 
thing in nature. 

Yes, the babbling brook sang to her in rhyth- 
mical sounds, it told her in language she could 
not repeat in word, but which she understood 
perfectly, that God is love, that everything is 
love, and that love is everything. 

The soft kiss of autumn’s breath upon her 
cheek seemed but a caress from the God of 
Love. The quiet peace and calm of the day 
stole into her heart like whispered cadences 


54 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

from the heavenly choir, and her whole being 
rose in a grand Magnificat to the author of life. 

No, she did not put her feelings into words, 
she did not even consciously think them; but 
she felt them, nevertheless, and she lived for 
the time being in that ecstatic state briefly 
known to many, and she knew the meaning of 
love. 

But not long was she in this blissful state, 
for just as she rounded a curve in the pathway 
she came face to face with a man in hunting 
garb, with knife and tomahawk and rifle, but 
with more and worse than these things, with 
evil eye, and with countenance showing the 
devilish passion that filled his soul. 

She started back apace, and exclaimed with 
terror in her voice ! 

“O, is it you?” 

She knew the man. It was Smelty. 

“Yes, it’s me, Missie,” answered he; “and 
now I guess you’ll have time to answer the 
question I asked you at the big spring when 
that infernal George Beatty interrupted our 
conversation. Now, will you go with me of 
your own accord, or will you force me to take 
you anyhow?” 

Terror-stricken, Mollie looked around to the 
right and to the left, hoping to see some way of 
escape, but there was none. They were in the 
woods, where the trees and undergrowth had 
been but sparsely removed, and at least a half 
mile from where her father was at work. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 55 

Flight was impossible. She thought that she 
would scream out, but the rufihan anticipating 
this, now roughly grabbed her by the wrist, and 
hissed into her ear that if she screamed he 
would kill her. In order to prevent her from 
crying out he hurriedly placed one arm around 
her neck and clapped his hand over her mouth. 
He then laid down his rifle in the path, and 
placing his other arm around her waist forced 
her into the bushes a few steps and sat her on 
a log lying on the ground, at the same time sit- 
ting down beside her and saying : 

“Now, my fine lady, will you marry me and 
leave the countr^y with me, or will you force me 
to take you without that interesting ceremony ? 
For have you I will, one way or the other ! And 
when Bill Smelty says he’ll do a thing, he’ll do 
it, by h-11 !” 

She struggled until almost exhausted, and 
then managed to make him understand that she 
could not answer him unless he removed his 
hand from her mouth. This he did, partially, 
and she asked him what he wanted her to do ? 

To this he answered: 

“Now look here, Mollie, I love you and I 
want you to be my wife, and if you say you 
will be. I’ll let you go, and we can meet at the 
big spring tomorrow night, and I’ll have two 
horses there, and then let them ketch us ef they 
kin.” 

She had been talking to gain time and to 
think, and now, as his hand was removed from 


56 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

her mouth sufficiently, she gave a shriek that 
could have been heard for miles, and which was 
heard by her father and by those who were 
with him. 

“Ah, hah!’' bellowed the man; “that’s your 
game, is it? Well, I’ll have a kiss anyhow — and 
more than that later on!” and with this he 
threw both arms around her in a tighter em- 
brace and drew her to him. She struggled now 
with all the strength of despair. She tugged 
at his beard and hair and attempted to pull her- 
self from his grasp, but to no purpose. 

He was a powerful man and a determined 
one, and he held on to her, until at last her 
head sank on her shoulders and onto his arm, 
and her eyes closed. 

Then the villain imprinted his poisoned kiss 
on her fair cheek, at the same time hissing in 
her ear, “If you tell anybody about this I’ll kill 
your fine buck, George Beatty!” 

But she never heard the threat, for uncon- 
sciousness had mercifully come to veil the 
scene from her senses. 

Rapid footsteps were now heard approach- 
ing the spot, and laying the limp form of the 
girl on the ground Smelty took up his rifle and 
ran into the cover of the underbrush. Just as 
he disappeared from sight he turned and shook 
his fist at the rescuers, and defiantly shrieked ! 

“I’ll have her yet!” 

It was not more than three minutes from the 
time the girl had cried out before Beatty, 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 57 

Stone, and Curry were on the spot. .They took 
in the situation at a glance, and it was the si- 
multaneous thought of the three men that the 
first thing to be done was to endeavor to revive 
the girl, so Curry picked up the seemingly life- 
form of his daughter and bore it to the little 
stream among the sumachs. The others ac- 
companied him, and in a few minutes more, af- 
ter sprinkling the cooling water into her face, 
and bathing her temples and chafing her hands 
and wrists, she slowly opened her eyes with a 
sigh, and inquired, “Where am I ?” And then, 
almost immediately, she continued, “O, I know, 
it was Smelty!” 

The two younger men sprang to their rifles’ 
and were off in a flash in the direction of Smel- 
ty’s cabin, leaving the older man with his 
daughter. 

Considerable time had been spent in their 
efforts to revive Mollie, but it was not long be- 
fore Beatty and vStone were in sight of Smelty’s 
house. 

Usually Stone was more than a match for 
Beatty in speed, but now love seemed to have 
lent wings to Beatty’s always nimble feet, and 
this time he outstripped Stone in the race. 

Beatty seemed to be very cool, but there 
raged in his heart a fury and a passion that 
would have resulted in the taking of life had 
the opportunity then arisen. 

•The^ few minutes spent in bringing Mollie 
back to consciousness had enabled Smelty to 


58 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

reach the stable where he kept his horse ; to 
hastily bridle and mount the animal, without 
waiting to saddle, and to be off toward the 
woods. 

As he entered the forest on one side of the 
clearing Beatty sprang from it on the other, 
with Stone a yard or so in his rear. Smelty 
stopped just long enough to send a rifle ball 
close to Beatty’s head, which was answered by 
shots from both Beatty and Stone. Smelty, 
laughing as he disappeared from sight, yelled 
to them to 

“Look out for Bill Smelty; he’ll call again!” 

The two pursuers now held a hasty consulta- 
tion, and it was decided that to go after horses 
would be to lose the game altogether, so Beatty 
said to Stone : 

“June, I’m going after that scoundrel, and if 
I catch him I’ll kill him.” 

Stone answered. 

“Take the trail, then, George, and I am with 
you.” 

They started in rapid pursuit. The trail could 
be easily followed for some distance; then it 
was lost and again found, always tending in the 
direction of the Kentucky River. 

As has been stated before, both Beatty and 
Stone were swift runners and untiring hunters, 
and although it was only a couple of hours be- 
fore night, they pressed on at a steady gate, 
Beatty always in the lead and Stone following 
close at his heels. Up hill and down hill they 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 59 

went, tearing through the underbrush at times, 
then jumping the trunks of fallen trees, some- 
times tripping over grape vines, again wading 
streams, but always pressing onward, until at 
last they neared the majestic cliffs of the river. 

It was dark by this time, and they knew that 
they must reach the river before their game 
had crossed, or that they must come upon him 
before darkness set in, else he would slip 
through their hands altogether. 

Ah. iron-nerved and strong men as they 
were, they were tired now. Their tongues were 
literally hanging out of their mouths, and their 
lips were parched and dry, but they did not 
stop. t 

I'he man on horseback would seem to have 
had all the advantage, and so he had had for a 
time ; but as he neared the river his horse would 
be hindered greatly by the undergrowth, just 
as our friends were, only much more so, and 
the rider would have to make some detours on 
account of the extreme unevenness of the 
ground, so that the race was not such an un- 
even one as might at first appear. 

But, as it happened, darkness set in before 
they had quite reached the water’s edge at the 
bottom of the cliff, and then they knew that 
Smelty had escaped. They were surprised, 
however, to hear the neigh of a horse, and soon 
discovered that Smelty had abandoned his steed 
and had either swam the river or was in hiding 
on this side, where it would be impossible to 
find him. 


6o 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


They noticed that the horse was very lame, 
and this accounted for its abandonment; they 
also noticed that the sweat had not yet dried on 
him, and they then knew that they had not 
missed the fugitive by much. 

The two men had exchanged few words, ex- 
cept in monosyllables, since the pursuit began. 
Though now twelve miles from Harrodsburg, 
and night was upon them, they determined to 
return forthwith. They found that they could 
utilize the horse by taking turns in riding; so, 
though disappointed, they began to retrace 
their steps slowly, and arrived at the settlement 
before twelve o’clock. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


Mollie was all right by the time she reached 
home, when she was able to give a detailed ac- 
count of the encounter with Smelty up to the 
time she lost consciousness. 

She also told her father and mother of his 
meeting her at the spring, and of the timely ar- 
rival of George Beatty, whom she had gone 
there to see, by which Smelty was frightened 
off. She told them further that the reason she 
had never mentioned this meeting to George or 
to them, and had not told of other advances 
Smelty had made, was, that knowing the un- 
scrupulousness and cunning of the man, she 
feared that he would harm her father or 
George, as he had threatened to do, if she did 
not keep silence. 

She knew, she said, that he would have op- 
portunities in plenty to carry out his threats by 
approaching the men while at work in the 
woods and shooting from the cover of the bush, 
and that the shooting would be charged against 
the Indians. She had racked her brain to de- 
vise some means by which to put the men on 


62 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


their guard without bringing on the very cat- 
astrophe which she wished to prevent. She was 
convinced, too, that Smelty would carry out his 
threat without delay if she spoke, and she knew 
that he was watching her. She had thought 
of speaking to June Stone about the matter and 
asking his advice and his help ; in fact, she had 
determined to do so this very afternoon, and 
that was one reason that made her wish to go 
to the men at work in the woods. Possibly, she 
thought, this might have been the better way; 
she did not know. But now events had taken 
the matter out of her hands. As she told her 
story the father’s brow grew black as night and 
the mother’s countenance took on a look of anx- 
iety and troubled concern. The daughter was 
sitting at her mother’s feet, and when she 
reached the point in the story where the ruf- 
fian seized hold of her and forced her into the 
brush, she buried her head in her mother’s lap 
and began to sob hysterically. 

“Oh ! mother,” she cried, “it was so horrible 
and I was so frightened.” 

“Yes, yes, my child,” responded Mrs. Cur- 
ry, “but you are safe now, thank the Good 
Lord !” And she fondly stroked the girl’s hair 
and threw her arms around her as if to guard 
her from harm with those protecting barriers. 

The father walked the floor for some time, 
ejaculating. 

“If he gets away this time he had better 
never show his ugly mug in these part again, 
d — n him !” 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 63 

Then turning to the mother and daughter he 
said kindly. 

“Now, mother, you take Mollie and put her 
to bed, for she needs to be quiet.” 

“Father,” said the girl, “I will lie down, but 
I can’t sleep until the boys come back.” 

And her father knew that her heart was fol- 
lowing the trail of the fugitive, and that in 
imagination her mind was speeding along with 
the pursuers. In fact, there was no sleep for 
any member of that household for some hours 
that night. 

The father chafed because he could not join 
in the chase, and in truth he felt some anxiety 
as to the result of the meeting in case the boys 
came up with Smelty. 

He had become very fond of both Beatty 
and Stone, and he knew that Smelty was a 
good shot and would fight desperately when 
cornered. He had no doubt as to what Smelty’s 
fate would be if the boys came up with him at 
the same time, but still he feared that Smelty 
might succeed in killing or cruelly wounding 
one of them before he himself was disabled. 

He had seen that in Beatty’s eye when he took 
the trail which meant death to Smelty or to 
himself should the former be overtaken; and 
he saw that air of quiet determination in 
Stone’s manner which boded no good for the 
fugitive. Still, as he paced back and forth in 
front of his door, he muttered to himself ever 
and anon, “D — n it, I ought to be with them 


64 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

In the meantime the minutes continued to 
drag their leaden-tipped wings along, and they 
accumulated and were piled up into hours, until 
the suspense became almost unbearable. 

The sounds in the settlement had gradually 
subsided and all was quiet within the houses, 
and still Enoch Curry kept his patrol in front 
of the door. He was about to conclude that 
the boys would not return that night, when a 
dog somewhere in town gave several quick, 
warning barks, and his alert ear caught the 
sound of crackling, snapping branches and 
twigs out by the big spring; and presently the 
figures of two men came into sight. Curry 
stood waiting for them to approach, and he 
knew who they were almost immediately. 
Both were safe and apparently sound ; but what 
about the horse ? Then he spoke. 

“Hello, boys, what luck?” 

It was Stone who replied. 

“The quarry got away, but we captured his 
horse.” 

“Well,” said Curry, “come in and tell me 
about it.” 

So the three went into the house, and threw 
some logs on the smoldering fire, which soon 
blazed up and lighted the room quite brilliantly. 

While they were talking the mother and 
daughter came from above to hear the story 
the boys had to tell ; and Mollie, when she saw 
the two men in comparatively good trim, 
rushed across the room and threw her arms 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


6s 

around George Beatty’s neck and began to cry. 

“Hoity, toity!” cried her father; “is that the 
way you greet your friends when they come 
back safely to you, my daughter ; what are you 
crying about?” 

Mollie replied : 

“I am crying igr joy, father. I am so glad 
to see George and June back safe and sound; 
and I love George, father, and he loves me, and 
I should have been miserable if anything had 
happened to them.” 

“Is all this so, George?” asked Enoch Curry, 
turning to George. 

“Yes, Mr. Curry,” responded George; “and 
more, too, and we want to ask you and Mrs. 
Gurry to let us get married.” 

“Well, well, George, we’ll talk about that to- 
morrow,” said the old man; and then he con- 
tinued, addressing his daughter. “If you are 
going to be a frontiersman’s wife, Mollie, you 
must get used to his being in dangerous places. 
But it is getting late now, and I reckon we had 
better go to bed and sleep over it all.” 

After the boys had briefly told their story, 
and were on their feet, preparatory to taking 
their departure, he said to them. 

“Good night, lads, come around in the morn- 
ing and give us a more detailed account of 
your adventures.” 

Soon afterwards silence again reigned over 
the little town and over the fort, and the moor 


66 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE- 


looked down with its cold, unchanging smile 
on the little doings of men. 

A close watch was kept on Smelty’s cabin for 
some weeks, but nothing was seen of him. He 
seemed to have disappeared as effectually and ■ 
as entirely as though a message from Beatty's j 
or Stone’s rifle had reached him with its prohi- ' 
bition. The two men were hunting together one ’ 
day in the late fall and passed by the deserted ; 
cabin. They entered the building and began to ) 
look around to see if there were any indica- | 
tions of its having been occupied lately. They j 
were soon convinced that some one had been j 
there ; not so long ago, either, for the blankets ! 
were removed from the bed, and in one corner 
stood a box with the lid raised, with only a 
scrap or Tvo of rag remaining in it, and every 
article of appreciable value had been carried 
away. The men stopped and looked at each • 
other and Stone remarked. \ 

“He’s been here, George.” 

“Yes,” replied Beatty, “the scoundrel; you 
remember he said he’d call again. I wonder 
when he’ll niake his last call?” 

“Dunno,” remarked Stone, “but we’ve got to ' 
be ready for him.” i 

That was a beautiful autumn. The weather ! 
was fine even up to the last month in the year. | 
There had been many frosts, and even a thin 
skim of ice on the stream. The air was bracing, 
but the sun shone clear and bright in the heav- 
ens, and the appetite was good and the heart 
was stout. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 67 

Beatty’s love making had prospered, and 
A4!ollie’s heart was full to overflowing. .The 
mother and daughter were busy from morning 
until night with needle and scissors and loom 
and spinning wheel. The passers-by could now 
hear, often until far into the night, the whir, 
whir and the droom, droom of the fast revolv- 
ing circle; or the clamp, clamp of the descend- 
ing loom as it wove the threads into cloth for 
the household necessaries. 

Busily the preparations were being pushed, 
for Mollie was to be married ere long, and 
soon savory odors would be wafted by the 
breeze and carried to the expectant nostrils of 
her fellow townsmen. It would have surprised 
a bride of the present day, and could not have 
failed to interest her also, to have looked over 
Mollie’s trousseau. 

She would have looked in wonder at the lin- 
sey-woolsey petticoats into which the predomi- 
nant colors — red, green and brown — had been 
woven in checks ; at the underclothing of coarse 
linen, bleached to a snowy whiteness; at the 
woolen stockings and buckskin gloves ; and the 
heayy, stout shoes meant more for service than 
for ornament. Perhaps she might sigh as she 
looked around at her luxuriant surroundings 
and wonder if, after all, Mollie’s was not the 
better part. 

Mollie was to be married with a little more 
pomp than usual. Her mother was a great 


68 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


needle-woman and her father was a great hun- 
ter, SO she was to have ‘a pair of moccasins to 
wear on her wedding day. The father had 
spent a great deal of time in tanning a deer 
skin taken from a fine doe which he had killed 
early in the season, and the mother had 
snatched many moments from her other work 
in which to adorn the foot gear of her daugh- 
ter with some beads which she had found in an 
old chest wherein she had stored away many 
little relics of her own girlhood in the East, and 
brought with her to their new home. 

Do not curl the lip in scorn, my dainty lady 
with the curving instep and French-heeled shoe, 
into which your silken hose glides with graceful 
ease. 

When Mollie’s dainty little feet — as small as 
yours, bye the way — were encased in the moc- 
casins, and the flaps were tied around the 
plump and well-turned ankles, with finely-tas- 
seled deer-skin thongs, they were wonders of 
beauty — at least, so thought George Beatty as 
she came down to him on the day of their wed- 
ding, and that is all that really matters. 

Many settlers had erected cabins on the land 
which they had taken up, so that now in all di- 
rections from the town smoke from the chim- 
neys could be seen rising heavenward, and the 
sound of the woodman’s axe was frequently 
heard by the hunter or the prospector as he 
passed through the forest. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 69 

Since his attachment for Mollie had begun, 
Beatty had been cutting timber and preparing 
material with which to erect a cabin on his 
land, lying about a mile or so from the settle- 
ment, in the direction of the Kentucky River. 

Those who are acquainted with the locality 
today know what a beautiful country it is ; how 
magnificent the forest trees, some of which 
must have looked down on just such scenes as 
we have been endeavoring to picture ; how fer- 
tile the soil, how rhythmical the undulations of 
the ground, and how inviting the cool shades 
to the weary traveler on a hot summer day, 
beckoning to him to come and rest upon the 
velvety green carpet beneath the branches. 

And the shades were just as inviting then, 
though more dense; the soil just as rich and 
the forests as dear to the heart of the pioneer 
as to those who came after him. 


CHAPTER IX. 


At las.t the day arrived, and the friends of 
the bride and groom assembled at the house of 
Enoch Curry, The preacher, a traveling min- 
ister of the Methodist persuasion, was on hand 
to join the couple as man and wife. 

Religious thought and feeling were not very 
profound in the minds and hearts of the people 
at that time; but there was a deep-rooted con- 
viction that these matters, as well as some 
others, must be attended to decently and in or- 
der, and among them was the greatest respect 
and regard for the chastity of their women. In- 
deed, I may venture to say that this last was 
part of the heritage handed down from genera- 
tion to generation. 

It was an interesting and unique spectacle 
which that bright December day presented, 
when some three score men and women gath- 
ered together to witness the mystic blending to- 
gether of two lives into one. 

The men, with rough, but in most instances, 
kindly faces, were clad in leather leggins and 


In The footsteps of boone. 71 

linsey or deer-skin shirts, with moccasins on 
their feet and with rifle in hand ; the women in 
linsey gowns and petticoats, and coarse shoes 
and stockings, with smiles wreathing their 
countenances. 

Each and all had a good will and kindly 
greeting for their hosts, and best wishes for the 
happiness of the young couple who were to be 
the principal actors in this scene. 

As many as could crowd in stood with heads 
bared, and the others outside strained their 
necks and endeavored to catch a glimpse of 
what was going on within, or to hear a sound 
of what was said. 

Amid the hush which now prevailed the 
voice of the minister was heard in clear and 
ringing tones, “What God has joined together 
let no man put asunder.” The prayer which 
followed, asking God’s blessing on the young 
couple and on all those present, as well as on 
all mankind, arose as incense to The Throne 
above, and on the heads of those who heard it, 
it rested like a benediction. 

After the ceremony was over Enoch Curry 
stepped in front of the contracting parties, 
kissed Mollie, gave George’s hand a hearty 
shake and addressed the company as follows : 

“My friends, the wedding is over now, and T 
want you all to step into the other room, where 
I think you will find something the women 
folks have prepared for you to eat, and if you 
can’t all get in at the same time, why just wait 


72 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

a little bit in here or outside, and your turn will 
come soon, for weVe got enough for all.” 

“And just wait a moment, June,” said he, 
addressing Stone, “did you get the fiddlers?” 

“Yes, Uncle Enoch,” replied Stone, “Zach 
and Billie are out there.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Curry, “when you have all 
had enough to eat we’ll have a dance.” 

Now began the wedding feast. Against one 
side of the cabin Mr. Curry had built a lean-to 
kitchen, and here the food was prepared and 
carried into the room adjoining, where it was 
spread. 

The table was rough and the viands would 
be considered rather coarse nowadays, but still 
they were very inviting to the guests at that 
time, all of whom were blessed with good, 
wholesome appetites; and Mr. Curry, George 
and June, and several of the other men, were 
soon busy supplying them with roast pork and 
chicken, and juicy slices of venison. Mollie 
made herself useful to her mother, who, with 
the help of the two boys and one or more of her 
neighbor’s wives, kept the plates filled with 
potatoes, and cabbage and other kinds of veg- 
etables. 

After every one had finished eating, it being 
about dark, and as the fiddlers were heard tun- 
ing up their instruments in the other room, the 
younger people began to pair off and to form 
sets for the four-hand reel and other dances. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 73 

Before a great Avhile the fiddlers began to 
warm up to their work, and during the evening 
and far into the night reels and quadrilles and 
jigs followed the motion of their bows in quick 
succession, and the dancers became heated and 
excited and more and more energetic in their 
exertions. 

Mollie danced until her cheeks glowed like 
ripe apples, and George danced and June Stone 
danced; and when the fun and revelry were at 
their height, Enoch Curry could not resist any 
longer, but jumped to the middle of the floor 
and executed a jig in such a manner as put the 
younger men on their mettle in trying to equal 
it. 

Now all formality, if it could be said that 
there had been any before this, was cast aside, 
and shouts of “Good for Mr. Curry!” “Hur- 
rah for Uncle Enoch, that’s the right cut to 
give it!” were heard from all sides. 

Some clapped their hands upon their knees, 
or kept time by stamping their feet upon the 
floor, and in the midst of this uproar and of 
Uncle Enoch’s performance, Mrs. Curry walk- 
ed to the door and stood looking on for a mo- 
Hient in surprise, and then her fat sides began 
to shake with laughter. 

“Well, I declare!” she ejaculated, “just look 
at Enoch Curry cutting up like a boy.” 

Mr. Curry now caught sight of her and 
danced rapidly up to where she was standing 
and said : 


74 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

“You. see, Marthy, I haven’t forgotten how 
to dance, neither have you.” And he took hold 
of her and led her on to the floor, shouting at 
the same time to the fiddlers, “A reel, my men, 
a reel !” and the musicians struck off into a live- 
ly reel with renewed vigor. 

Aunt Marthy, as she was generally called in 
the town, entered at once into the spirit of the 
occasion, and danced the set out with much 
agility and with much more gracefulness than 
did Uncle Enoch. When the dance was fin- 
ished, Uncle Enoch led her to the door and 
gave her a rousing kiss before he let her go 
back to the kitchen, amid the enthusiastic 
cheers of the whole company. 


CHAPTER X. 


About ten o’clock, though the music had not 
flagged, nor the enthusiasm of the dancers 
either, some of Mollie’s young lady friends 
were seen in whispered consultation in one cor- 
ner of the room, and presently they approached 
and took her by the arms and around the waist 
and forced her out of the room, and were seen 
through the open door with her ascending 
the stairs in the opposite room. 

Soon after this June Stone was seen to step 
up to and tap George on the shoulder, and he 
and two or three other young men led the new- 
ly-wedded husband off like a lamb, and guided 
him up the same flight of stairs which the girls 
had taken Mollie. 

The girls had put Mollie to bed, and the 
young men, when they had gotten George up 
stairs, picked him up and laid him by her side 
and then came down again, leaving the couple 
alone. 

The dancing and the fun still continued, but 
after a time when the night had passed its zen- 
ith, some one suggested that they ought to take 


76 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

the young couple some refreshments, so into the 
kitchen a party of them went, and carried up 
to George and Mollie a generous supply of 
food, of which they must partake, for that was 
a part of the unwritten law for such occasions. 

Finally the music ceased and the dancers be- 
came tired and began to take their leave in 
couples or in squads, and soon the little town 
settled to its accustomed quiet and rest. 

The silent stars looked down upon the land- 
scape; but theirs were not the only eyes that 
saw, for from the darkness and the bushes 
there glared a pair of human eyes, and the hate 
and desire for revenge which shone from them 
seemed strong enough to pierce the logs of the 
wooden stockade which sheltered the now 
sleeping forms of the newly-wedded couple. 

Everything had been put in readiness on 
George’s land for the house raising, so on the 
second day after the wedding the Curry house- 
hold was astir early in the morning in order to 
be on the ground before the friends and neigh - 
bors assembled for the occasion. 

George and Mollie had selected a spot on the 
land owned by the former on which to erect 
their future domicile. It was on a slight rise, 
which sloped in front and back, and on one side 
to the bank of a little stream which ran very 
near to where the prospective house would 
stand, and around to the rear of it. In this 
Mollie could submerge her vessels of milk and 


liS THE rOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 77 

patties of butter, and the fresh meat, keeping 
all fresh and sweet. 

In the opposite direction and to the right of 
where the front entrance to the house was to 
be, there stretched a level plateau, which 
George had cleared of trees and underbrush for 
a hundred yards or more. Just in front and a 
little to one side he had left standing a magnifi- 
cent elm which in summer cast its shade over- 
a circumference of many yards. Nowhere, I am 
quite sure, does this superb tree attain more 
majestic proportions or bend its branches to the 
breeze in more graceful motions. 

The neighbors and friends were not long in 
reaching the place appointed, and among them 
a good many of the women, for it was a holi- 
day occasion, though there was much work to 
be done, and at night there would be another 
dance. 

Willing hands apd sinewy arms lent aid, and 
by the time the sun had reached a point in the 
heavens directly above them and one could 
place his foot on the shadow of his head with- 
out stepping out of position, the sides of the 
house were up. Each log had been placed in 
position, and the crevices between had been fill- 
ed with a plastering of clay. The structure was 
now ready for roofing. 

In the meantime the women- folks had the 
pots boiling, for the fires had been long crack- 
ling under them as they hung from improvised 
cranes or rested on the glowing coals ; and sav- 


78 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

ory odors rose from the meats and vegetables 
to greet the nostrils of the hungry men. Nor 
were the ash-cake and the corn-dodger absent 
from the feast. 

There in the primeval forest, far from the 
refinements of life, on the very outskirts and in 
the van of that civilization which was to make 
this the greatest republic in the world’s history, 
our grandfathers or our great-grandfathers, 
and our grand or great-grandmothers, disport- 
ed themselves, and jest and hearty laughter 
went echoing through the forest, and perhaps 
more than one kiss was stolen from rosy lips by 
buckskin-moccasined lover. 

By nightfall the roof was on, the household 
furnishings were placed in position, and the 
lately wedded pair led the dance which was to 
end the ceremonies of installing George and 
Mollie into their new home and launch them on 
their new life. 

The dancing continued until near morning, 
and then with heartiest good wishes the com- 
pany took its leave. 

The next day George and Mollie stood to- 
gether and looked out over the scene, and 
George, putting his arm around her waist and 
taking one of her hands in his strong palm, 
asked : 

'‘Are you happy, dear, and do you think that 
you will be content?” 

“Yes, George,” she replied, “only it seems 
so still and quiet.” 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 79 

“If you are afraid, Mollie,” responded he, “I 
will ask your father to let one of the boys come 
and stay with you for a while, anyhow, when I 
am obliged to be away from the house at 
work. Don’t you think that he would let A1 
come?” 

“Yes,” answered Mollie, “I think he would, 
and it would be nice ; but it is not for myself so 
much that I am afraid. I’m afraid for you, 
George, and I can’t seem to be able to get the 
thought of that dreadful man out of my mind. 
June told me that I ought to keep a loaded 
rifle in the house all the time. He didn’t say 
anything about Smelty, but I know he don’t 
feel easy about him yet.” 

Presently she went on. “You know he might 
sneak up on you in the woods and shoot before 
you saw him.” 

“Well,” replied George, “I don’t believe he’s 
anywhere in these parts, but I’ll keep a sharp 
lookout for him.” 

So the days went on, and the sound of 
George’s axe was heard almost constantly in 
the woods, and the crash and thunder of the 
falling trees indicated that he was fast clearing 
space for a larger crop next year. 

The sound of Mollie’s voice as she sang at 
her task was frequently wafted to him while he 
rested at intervals from his labor. One of Mol- 
lie’s brothers, either Jimmie or Al, was with 
her most of the time that winter, and she began 
to feel quite easy in her mind. Jimmie was 


8o 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE 


1 




about fifteen years old now and she felt that he \ 

was a great protection to her, and June Stone i 

stopped quite often at the cabin on his excur- j 

sions to the woods in search of game and fre- i 

quently on returning he would leave a substan- \ 

tial reminder of his success. 1 

Since George’s marriage, June had taken i 

more assiduously than ever to the hunt and ■ 

chase. A kind of restlessness had taken possess- | 

ion of him, and he was rather lonesome. j 

The cabin in the settlement in which he and \ 
George had lived so long together did not 
seem like the same place. He now often spent 
several days at a time in the forest, and his soul 
sought a closer communion with natur^ than 
ever before. He even once or twice crossed the 
Kentucky River and penetrated the country for 
miles beyond, and found it much to his liking. 

When in the settlement he was often at the 
house of Enoch Curry, who had grown fonder 
of him than ever. Aunt Marthy had begun to 1 
mother him, too, for she saw the restlessness j 
that had taken possession of him lately, and j 
shrewd old lady that she was, she more than ; 

half suspected that he had more than a passing ^ 

fancy for Mollie. Besides she had one of i 
those kindly natures which is always reaching : 
out to help somebody. 

During the winter months about the only 
pastimes the men had were hunting and trap- 
ping, which they did, however, not only for 
sport, but for profit also; so it happened that 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


8l 


Enoch Curry and June took to hunting and 
trapping together, and they often rode on 
horseback when visiting their traps, some of 
which they had placed along the foot of the 
cliffs of the Kentucky River. One cold morn- 
ing in the latter part of February the two men 
started out for quite an extended tour, intend- 
ing to inspect the condition of their traps in re- 
mote places. 

There had been several inches of snow on the 
ground for a couple of weeks, but it had melt- 
ed so that it only remained in places beneath 
the shade of the trees and under the bushes. 
They were within about half a mile of George 
Beatty’s place — there were no roads as yet, 
only bridle or foot paths — when June suddenly 
reined in his horse and exclaimed ! 

“Uncle Enoch, threre’s a moccasin trail 
crossing this path, and the foot-print is a big 
one, too.” 

At the same time he dismounted and began 
to peer along the ground, examining the tracks 
very critically. Presently he looked up to his 
companion and remarked hastily; 

“These tracks ain’t George’s, nor Mol- 
lie’s, nor Jimmie’s, neither.” 

He quite often now fell into the vernacular 
of the locality. 

A moment later, while his eyes were still riv- 
eted to the prints in the snow, he spoke again : 

“They are Indian tracks. I can tell by the 
way the toes have been pressed into the snow ; 


82 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


and,, yes, there’s more than one. They have 
been treading in each other’s tracks.” 

“Come on then, June,” cried Mr. Curry; 
there’s no time to be lost,” and he started in a 
gallop toward George Beatty’s cabin. 

Stone sprang to his horse’s back and was 
soon up with his companion. As they rode, 
not a word was spoken, but Stone could hear 
the gritting of Curry’s teeth and could see him 
grip his rifle tighter as they neared the clearing. 

When they were within a hundred yards or 
so of the cabin they heard the report of a rifle, 
and they urged their horses on faster. Just as 
they entered the clearing they sprang from their 
animals and began to run for the house, for a 
sight met their eyes that filled them with alarm 
and anger. 

Two or three Indians were trying to batter 
down the door with their tomahawks, and they 
had succeeded in bursting it partially open, 
when an axe in the hands of someone within 
descended on the head of one of the savages, 
and the axe handle was seen to be clasped in the 
hands of a woman. 

Back of the savages was a white man urging 
them on. 

Both Stone and Curry fired, and two of the 
attacking party sprang into the air with a wild 
shriek and fell at the door. 

At this moment a shot came from within and 
also another from the edge of the woods just 
across the little stream which ran around the 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 83 

corner of and to the back of the house, and the 
white man, evidently the leader of the Indians, 
dropped his rifle with an oath. Our two friends, 
now with knife in hand, rushed across the open, 
and at the same time George Beatty scrambled 
up the bank and started running toward the 
cabin. Before any of the three reached the 
house two Indians appeared from behind the 
building, and one of them stopped and took 
deliberate aim at Beatty and fired. 

Beatty fell to the earth with the blood run- 
ning from his side. 

A shriek of anguish here rent the air and 
Mollie glided through the door and flew to the 
prostrate form of her husband. 

Stone, being stung to madness by the sight, 
came swiftly on, and jumping over the bodies 
of the two Indians who had been shot, rushed 
on Beatty’s assailant. The Indian stood his 
ground only for an instant, and then turned 
and fled. 

Stone’s hunting knife was in his hand, and 
as the Indian turned he hurled it with all his 
force and the blade stuck in the Indian’s back ; 
and when, still running, he entered the cover of 
the woods it was still sticking there. 

After this the Indians called Stone “Shoot- 
ing Knife.” 

Curry was now almost upon the leader of the 
party, the white man. 

“Smelty,” he yelled’ “I know you, you dog, 
and I’ll kill you.” 


84 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

know you, too, Enoch Curry, d — n the 
whole lot of ye ; an’ I guess I’ll git even wid ye 
this time,” replied Smelty. 

Jimmie Curry now jumped from the door of 
the cabin, with a rifle in his hand and .as he did 
so the last Indian on the ground shot at him, 
but missed his mark. 

This shot, however, had the effect of distract- 
ing the attention of the father from Smelty, 
who had been working his way toward the edge 
of the clearing, and he now took advantage of 
momentary lapse of interest in his direction to 
rapidly enter the brush. 

Of course all this occurred in a few moments, 
and now the field was cleared of the enemy, 
but what were the casualties ? 

Two Indians lay dead at the door, one with 
his skull crushed by the axe and a bullet wound 
in his side, the other with the blood slowly ooz- 
ing from a gimlet-like aperture in the left tem- 
ple. One other Indian, and the white man, 
Smelty had been shot — and then that other In- 
dian with the knife in his back was hurt, too. 

On the other side, George Beatty was shot, 
but was he dead ? 


CHAPTER XL 


After pursuing the enemy to the edge of the 
forest the men came back and were bending 
over the body of Beatty, when Mollie, looking 
up with wild and terrified eyes, cried to her 
father in piteous tones. 

“Father, is he dead?” 

Then turning again to the prostrate form of 
her husband she pleaded, “Oh, George, speak 
to me ! Oh, my God, I’ll go mad !” 

“Hush, my daughter,” now spoke Enoch 
Curry, “hush, and let us take him into the 
house.” As he stooped to lift the body, he shook 
his fist in the direction Smelty had taken, and 
hissed between his teeth, “Curse him, I will 
hunt him to the death.” 

They bore George into the house and laid 
him on the bed. 

Presently June spoke, after having laid his 
head on the breast of the wounded man and 
listened intently for any heart beats. 

“Mollie, he is not dead ; I felt his heart beat- 
ing.” 


86 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


Mollie gave him such a look of gratitude 
and happiness that he never forgot it to his 
dying day. 

Mr. Curry now turned to his son and said : 

“Jimmie you catch my horse and go as fast 
as you can to the settlement and fetch the doc- 
tor, and tell your mother to come out as soon as 
possible.” 

Then turning to June he asked. 

“What are you going to do, June?” 

“Uncle Enoch,” he replied, “Em going to 
follow them.” 

“Well,” said the old man, “be careful my 
son, and Ell follow you as soon as the doctor 
and Marthy get here.” 

Stone was soon following the trail, which he 
easily found, through the forest in the direction 
of the river. 

In the meantime, Mollie and her farther 
worked with the wounded man, placing him in 
as easy position as was possible, using every 
means within their knowledge and at their com- 
mand to stop the flow of blood, until at last 
Jimmie came galloping into the clearing, and 
was soon followed by the doctor, also on horse- 
back. 

Upon examination it was found that the ball 
had passed through the body and had come out 
at the back, making a clean cut, just grazing 
the right lung, and ere long Beatty was breath- 
ing with comparative ease. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 87 

Other men came from the settlement, with 
their rifles, ready to render whatever services 
were in their power, and finally the portly form 
of Aunt Marthy hove in sight. Her husband 
met her at the door and assisted her to dis- 
mount, at the same time saying: 

“Marthy, I’m mighty glad you’ve come. The 
doctor says George is all right now, and I’ll 
leave some of the boys here with you and Mol- 
lie until I come back, for I must be off right 
away, June is on the trail by himself.” 

Jimmie had caught June’s horse by this time 
and was astride his back at the door, with his 
father’s horse also. 

“Father,” he said, “I want to go with you.” 

The father, looking at his son for one 
moment as if taking an inventory of the fight- 
ing stock the boy had on hand, did not deny 
him; and turning to one of the men, said to 
him : 

“Jack Simpson, you get on that horse behind 
Jimmie and come along.” Then addressing the 
others, he continued, “Two of you boys stay 
here at the cabin and the balance of you, if you 
want to, can follow us; but I reckon we’ll be 
enough for them varmints without you.” 

Then the three together with Mr. Curry, 
Jimmie and Jack, rode rapidly off into the 
woods. 

All was quiet around the cabin now, and the 
long anxious hours of the day dragged their 
weary length along until near its close, when 


88 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


George opened his eyes and smiled a recogni- 
tion on those attending him. 

A little later on he spoke to the doctor and 
said : 

“Doc, I’m all right ; I’m going to get well.” 

“That’s right, my boy, I guess you will,” re- 
plied the doctor; “but you must keep quiet 
now.” 

Presently George spoke again. 

“I say. Doc, did I hit Smelty?” 

“Yes,” replied the doctor; “but you did not 
hit him quite hard enough. Enoch and June 
and the boys are after him though, and I expect 
that Smelty will hear from some of them before 
they get back, but you shut up your talking 
now and keep still, if you want to get well.” 

Beatty obeyed him and closed his eyes. 

The night passed without incident, but the 
pursuing party did not return. 

The next day the anxiety became intense; 
still Aunt Marthy kept nervously at work all 
the time. 

One of the men said to her during the day; 

“The boys must hev hed a long chase. That 
Smelty is a mean rascal, an’ a hard one to 
ketch.” 

Aunt Marthy did not answer him, and the 
only way in which she showed that her mind 
was troubled was in the nervous energy with 
which she kept constantly busy. 

At last, about the middle of the forenoon, 
some of the men came in and reported that they 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 89 

had followed the trail until it crossed the river, 
and then they had stopped and waited until 
morning, when, knowing that it was no use 
then following further, they had returned. 
Stone and Enoch Curry and several others had 
evidently crossed and had gone on, they 
thought, but none of the party had seen or 
heard anything of Stone after he had left the 
clearing at the cabin. This was better, per- 
haps, than no news at all, yet the suspense was 
very trying. 

Finally, when nerves were strung to the ut- 
most tension, a party was seen to emerge from 
the forest and come slowly in the direction of 
the cabin. One man sat on one of the horses, 
leading the other, across whose back lay the 
limp body of a man. The man riding and lead- 
ing the horse, across whose body lay that of a 
man, was Enoch Curry, and Jimmie walked by 
his side, while two other men on foot brought 
up the rear. 

Aunt Martha was the first to see them, and 
with a queer lump sticking in her throat, she 
ran to meet them, before they were half way 
across the clearing. 

'‘Enoch, my man,” she cried, while still run- 
ning, “are you all right?” 

“Yes, Em all right,” he replied, “but poor 
Sam Jackson has handed in his checks, and we 
have brought him back to bury him decently.” 

Continuing, he said : 


90 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

“We caught up with the rascals this morning 
about ten miles beyond the river. There were 
five or six of the red devils, and that scoundrel, 
Smelty, on horse-back. D — n him, it looks as 
if he had a charmed life; but we killed his horse 
and we scattered the party, and June is hot af- 
ter Smelty himself.” 

“One of the scoundrels shot Sam here, but 
Zach sent him to his last account. Another one 
of them had his knife raised to strike home, 
but that boy of yours caught his arm in time to 
save your old man, and got his hands cut con- 
siderably. Somebody in the fracas, I don’t 
know whether it was Jack or June, whacked the 
red gentleman in the head with a tomahawk be- 
fore he could strike again ; then they broke and 
run, with the boys after them, and the last I 
saw of June he was going into the bushes to 
close in with Smelty, and I was left standing 
by myself.” 

Still continuing his narrative, he said : 

“We would have followed June; but we 
couldn’t find his trail after he went into the 
bushes, and we thought that he might reach 
here before us.” 

Then he broke off the telling of his story 
abruptly with the question. 

“How’s George, mother ?” 

Aunt Marthy, as we shall continue to call 
her and to think of her, told him that George 
was doing as well as could be expected and that 
the doctor thought that he would get well. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 9 1 

All these things were told as they were pro- 
ceeding into the cabin. The two men who had 
been left with the women had in the meantime 
hastened forward to hear. • 

Now Mollie left her husband’s side for the 
first time and came to the door to greet the re- 
turning party and to hear something of the 
story they had to tell. She threw her arms 
around her father’s neck and wept mingled 
tears of joy and sorrow. Then she went and 
looked into the face of the dead man, and 
stooped and kissed his forehead, and a prayer 
ascended from her heart to Heaven for the rest 
of the soul that had gone to meet its God. 

Aunt Marthy had in the meantime put her 
arm around her boy Jimmie, and led him into 
the cabin, where she might cry over him un- 
seen by the others and thank God for his and 
the other’s safe return. 

At such price was the beautiful land and the 
ample comfort — our heritage — purchased. 

Oh, men and women of today, as we sit 
with feet encased in easy slippers in front of 
the cosy fire and turn the pages of the news 
flashed from the uttermost parts of the earth, 
red hot from the mystic wires; or when we 
hold in dainty finger the bon-bon of artistic 
confection, or pass among our fellows and hear 
the exchange of new thoughts and ideas, as we 
breathe into our lungs the atmosphere of expan- 
sion and progressiveness, let us not forget the 
price of liberty, let us not lose sight of that 


92 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


dearest, noblest, grandest, most priceless part 
of our heritage — liberty, freedom, immunity 
from oppression. 

Let us remember always that the spirit of lib- 
erty is not selfish; that it abounds in charity, 
and that its highest conception is found in the 
command of the Great Teacher of morals, “Do 
unto others as you would have them do unto 
you.” 

Weary and worn, June Stone came into the 
cabin that evening. His first greeting was to 
Aunt Marthy, “How’s George, and how’s Mol- 
lie?” 

Having been satisfied on these points he pro- 
ceeded to the little stream at the back of the 
house and began to wash and to make himself 
more presentable. 

Enoch Curry gave him a hearty hand shake, 
and looked searchingly into his eyes, but spoke 
not a word. 

June understood him though, and said : 

“He won’t bother George and Mollie any 
more.” 

And Uncle Enoch understood him also, and 
they went into the cabin together to George and 
Mollie. 


CHAPTER XIL 

Long afterwards June told Uncle Enoch that 
when Smelty and his Indian allies broke and 
ran they scattered, and that he had singled out 
Smelty and determined to capture or kill him, 
or to be killed. He told him that after a chase 
of about a mile he came up with him, and that 
they had grappled and had had a mighty strug- 
gle for the mastery; that on account of the 
wound that George had given Smelty, he, June, 
was getting the best of it, and that the strug- 
gle would have been soon ended, had it not hap- 
pened that just as he had gotten his right arm 
free and was feeling for his knife, he caught 
his foot in a grape vine, which trailed close to 
the ground, and fell on to one knee, at the same 
time wrenching his grasp loose from Smelty, 
but that he was up almost instantly with the 
cold steel gleaming in his hand; that Smelty 
did not seem to like the looks of it and took ad- 
vantage of his accident to turn once more and 
run. 

He told Uncle Enoch that he was after him 
at once, but found that his ankle had been 


94 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

twisted to such an extent that he knew that 
Smelty would get away if it depended on his 
catching him; that he had then stopped long 
enough to pick up his rifle, and that he loaded 
it as he ran hobbling along ; that Smelty was at 
that particular time lost to his sight in the 
bushes, but soon afterwards appeared while 
crossing a small clearing, still running ; that he 
thought of Mollie and George, and what dan- 
ger they were in if that man got away again, 
and determined that he should not get away. 
He said that he then stopped and took steady 
aim and fired ; that Smelty pitched forward and 
fell, face downward, to the ground ; that, fear- 
ing treachery, he approached the place where 
he had fallen with caution, but found that the 
man was dead. The ball had gone from back 
to front, through the heart. He then threw 
some earth over the body, covering it as best he 
could, and turning away started for home. 

'T was pretty lame by this time,” said he, 
“and that is the reason it took me so long to get 
back.” 

The next day all the party, except Aunt Mar- 
thy and Jimmie, went back to the settlement, 
which was now of so much importance that we 
shall hereafter have to designate it as a “town.” 

In fact, it had its municipal government. 
Uncle Enoch being a member of the first town 
council. In the fall of this year the first court 
for the trial of law cases convened at this little 
town. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 95 

After a week or ten days George began to 
mend rapidly, and by the time the warm spring 
days came he was able to be about again, and 
it was not long before he was at work about the 
farm. 

Stone went back to his work and to his hunt- 
ing ; and as he had some practical knowledge of 
surveying he was often called on to lay off the 
metes and bounds of claims entered or trans- 
ferred by different individuals. 

Of course he visited George and Mollie quite 
frequently and made himself useful to them in 
many little ways; and as they were both very 
fond of him, they were always glad to have 
him with them. 

Still, June was restless. He did not shun the 
companionship of his kind, but he had been 
broken up since George’s marriage. They were 
just as good friends as ever, but the idea of 
comradeship could never be the same again. 

A new settlement had been begun the year be- 
fore, over on the other side of the Kentucky 
River, and it had already grown to some size. 
The land round about it was being taken up 
quite rapidly, and in consequence of this June 
was called on more than once to survey a piece 
of land across the river, and so he became 
acquainted with the little town of Lexington 
and with the beauty of the country surround- 
ing it. 

He and George had before passed through 
this section of the country on their trips to the 


g6 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

Blue Lick in search of buffalo, and both had 
thought well of it. 

On returning from one of these trips in the 
fall of that year he had stopped at Beatty’s 
house, and was somewhat surprised to see the 
rosy face of Aunt Marthy in the door of the 
cabin, wreathed in smiles, as she greeted him 
with, ‘^Come right in here, June, Fve got some- 
to show you and wondering, he followed her 
into the house. There sat George, also smil- 
ing, but where was Mollie ? 

June was becoming mystified; but glancing 
over toward the bed he saw her propped up 
with pillows. 

She beckoned to him, and starting toward 
her he exclaimed. 

“Why, Mollie, are you sick?” 

She, too, smiled, and all this smiling puzzled 
him considerably; for to tell the truth, he did 
not see anything to smile at. If Mollie was 
sick, they seemed to be in a particularly good 
humor over it. His kind, if rugged, nature 
was touched into something like anger and in- 
dignation at this apparent indifference to her 
condition. 

“Here, June — ” Mollie’s voice sounded 
rather weak and tremulous — “I want to intro- 
duce you to Master June Stone Beatty,” and as 
she said this she lifted the cover from a little 
red face, with squinting eyes and with one tiny 
fist doubled up and thrust into the baby mouth, 
which lay on the pillow beside her. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


97 

June stopped aghast, but presently broke into 
a laugh ; and then he paused suddenly and a 
tear dimmed his eye, and very tenderly he 
asked, 

''Is — is it named after me, Mollie?” 

Yes, June; George and I talked it over and 
we both wanted to call him June — ^June Stone.” 

Is that so, old man?” asked June, turninsf 
to Beatty. 

"Yes, my friend,” answered George, and the 
two strong men clasped hands with a hearty 
pressure. 

June then went over to the baby and asked 
Mollie to let him see it again, and he stooped 
and kissed it and silently walked away. 

Stone -was something of a dreamer in those 
days, and often he would sit and contemplate 
the landscape for hours at a time, letting his 
thoughts travel into the future, until he saw 
with almost prophetic vision the glorious 
future of this land ; heard the noises rising from 
the busy marts of trade; saw the ripened grain 
yielding to the industrious stroke of the sickle 
and cradle in the hands of the husbandman; 
saw the smoke rising from innumerable chim- 
neys and the children playing in front of the 
doors, while the mothers chatted together amid 
scenes of peace and plenty, and the old men sat 
before crackling fires and told of hardships and 
privations and adventure to a younger genera- 
tion. 


98 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

Perhaps his prophetic eye saw even further 
into the future, and the graceful slope of the 
grassy hill dotted with flocks and herds rose 
into view, and the mansion and velvety lawn, 
and stable and glossy coated horse, formed a 
prominent part of the picture ; for we find that 
even at this early day the love of the horse was 
a characteristic of the people, and that an act 
was passed by the first legislative assembly at 
Boonesborough in 1775 for improving the 
breed of horses. 

Our old friend Captain James Harrod was a 
delegate to that convention, and mingled his 
voice in friendly intercourse or debated ques- 
tions of grave import, with Daniel Boone and 
his brother Squire, with Samuel Henderson, 
with Richard Calloway and John Todd, with 
Floyd and Dandridge and Slaughter, and with 
others who helped to conquer the wilderness 
and leave it a garden spot for the generations 
to come after them. 

These men were rough and many of them 
without much education, but already they were 
making provisions for the future; they were 
making laws for the regulating of the relations 
of individuals composing the mass of the peo- 
ple one to another and to the community as a 
whole. 

They were looking into the future and seeing 
visions ; their actions were prophesying ; they 
were laying the foundations of a State, and 
they knew it ; they were paving the way for the 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


99 


gallant youth and beautiful maid of a later de- 
velopment and so was every man of them in 
this broad land who wielded an axe in the 
mighty forest, or leveled a rifle — as well as 
every woman who braved the dangers and un- 
derwent the hardships of those pioneer days. 

Every one now looked forward to, and be- 
lieved in, the successful termination of their 
efforts toward civilizing and rescuing this Dark 
and Bloody Ground from its crude and ungen- 
tle condition. 

But we shall see that not yet was the red 
man ready to give peaceable possession. 

The months rolled on, and the year 1779 
came, fraught with, events which have a pecu- 
liar bearing on our story. 

June Stone had not been merely dreaming 
all this time. 

A life of ease, or even of quiet, was not for 
the pioneer in those days. Frequent encoun- 
ters with the savages and adventures with wild 
beasts were his portion still. A life of almost 
daily peril filled his cup to overflowing. 

June had become enamored of the country 
across the river, and had selected a tract of 
land near Lexington onto which he intended 
to move at some convenient time in the future ; 
so that when Colonel Patterson essayed to in- 
terest the good people of Harrodsburg to join 
him in a project to form a settlement at Lex- 
ington, June was one of the first of the twenty- 
five men from there to accompany the Colonel 
for that purpose. 


f LofC. 


lOO 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


By this time Master June Stone Beatty was 
a pretty good-sized, chubby-faced boy, and bid 
fair to rival, in the course of years, in hardi- 
hood and courage, him for whom he had been 
named. 

Early in the year the party, with Colonel 
Patterson at their head, left Harrodsburg; 
but on the day before their departure June 
went out to visit George and Mollie. He had 
heretofore taken up a piece of land adjoining 
that of George, and while at Beatty’s cabin he 
called Mollie aside and placed a deed to the 
land in her hand, saying : 

‘‘Mollie, this is for the boy. I don’t want it. 
Eve got more over the river than I’ll ever have 
need for, and this’ll do to start the youngster 
with, I reckon.” 

“O, June, you are good; but you must not 
do it,” she said. But he stopped her with. 

“Now don’t say a word, it’s all right. I’ve 
talked the mat’ter over with George, and you 
will hurt me very much if you make any ob- 
jection.” 

So she said no more, but just threw her arms 
around June’s neck and kissed him. 

Kind reader, do you think that she was over 
bold; that her womanly instinct and feeling 
of modesty should have prevented any such de- 
monstration of feeling? Her husband saw 
and approved, and her heart was guilty of no 
treason to him. No question of conventional- 
ity entered her mind. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. lOI 

Those people lived very close to nature, and 
this was but the spontaneous outburst of nat- 
ural feeling; it was her way of showing her ap- 
preciation of a noble and generous act. 

Perhaps her grandchildren, taught by the 
conventionalities of a more advanced civiliza- 
tion ruled by the subtle influence of education 
and restrained by a more exacting social code, 
would have refrained from such an outward 
demonstration. But would they not have felt 
the same inward workings of the heart ? 

The pioneers were not without the finer feel- 
ings and susceptibilities by any means, but they 
were above and beyond the reach of those pet- 
ty jealousies which engender evil thoughts and 
suspicions, where no evil was, and it is hardly 
to be doubted that theirs was the truer moral 
instinct. 

Can we doubt — we at least who know the 
heart of the descendants of these people and 
are acquainted with their characteristics ; we 
who have come into contact with the Marshalls 
and Stallards of this country, and have felt the 
heartstrings vibrate to the music of the ‘'Choir 
Invisible,” or listened to the voice of eloquence 
from stump and forum and legislative hall; 
who have seen her sons amjd the pomp and 
glory of military display, or in the din of bat- 
tle; we who have admired the beauty, both of 
face and character, of her daughters — can we 
doubt, I say, that the germ of this growth lay 
embedded in the pioneer soil? 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Soon a blockhouse was begun at Lexington, 
cabins were built, streets laid off, and things in 
general assumed an air of permanency. 

It was not long before settlements were made 
in several parts of the surrounding country, 
and Bryant’s and Grant’s stations sprang into 
existence within a few miles of the town. Each 
of these places where permanent settlements 
had been made had its blockhouse or fort into 
which the people might repair in case of sudden 
danger; and quite frequently the houses were 
built so as to form part of the stockade. 

The land which June had secured, consisting 
of about three hundred acres, lay about half 
way between Lexington and Bryant’s, and he 
had built a cabin and begun to clear away the 
timber and undergrowth from a portion of it 
for cropping. He worked hard that spring and 
made much progress. 

The years continued to travel in their never- 
ending cycles, until at length the year 1782 ar- 
rived. 

June had spent the time very much as had 
his neighbors — in working, hunting, and trap- 


In the footsteps of boone. 


103 

ping. Frequently he had visited George and 
Mollie, and Uncle Enoch and Aunt Marthy. 

Jimmie Curry came over occasionally and 
spent several weeks at a time with him, and 
even George and Mollie had been over once or 
twice, but it had been some time since their last 
visit; for Mollie was too busy with her in- 
creased household duties and other responsibil- 
ities to leave home except on rare occasions. 

Three or four little ones had to be cared for 
now, and June, Jr., was playing hunter and In- 
dian fighter by turns around the cabin. Jimmie 
Curry had grown to manhood, at least in stat- 
ure, and he and June Stone had become fast 
friends and comrades. 

They frequently visited the neighborhood of 
the Kentucky River, and scaled its cliffs and 
explored all its tributaries for miles up and 
down its course ; until the intricacies of its ra- 
vines were known almost as well to both of 
them as the country around Lexington and 
Bryant’s. 

Often during these years, June and Jimmie 
would fill their wallets with edibles and visit 
their traps, tramp the forests, and hunt the 
game, until Jimmie had become nearly as good 
a woodsman as June, and could tell the time of 
day by a glance at the sun, and could read all 
the signs necessary to guide him aright in the 
wildest country, and he could also read 
Nature’s open book with unerring accuracy. 


104 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

Pleasant days they often thus spent together, 
and for the most pare peaceful ones, for at least 
for a time, the savage human foe had seeming- 
ly forgotten to war upon the white man in 
these parts, and had retired beyond the hills 
across the Ohio. 

But at last they were about to awake from 
their lethargy and make one more grand effort 
to stem the tide of civilization into this land. 

The tribes had combined to invade Ken- 
tucky, and the Shawanese, the Cherokees, the 
Wyandottes, the Tawas, and the Pottawato- 
mies had assembled in great numbers at Old 
Chillicothe, north of the Ohio, preparatory to 
marching south, and here they were joined by 
a detachment of British from Detroit. 

All the stragglers from these tribes had been 
summoned to the place of rendezvous, and so, 
for a very brief space of time the different sta- 
tions and settlers south of the river had exper- 
ienced a period of peace and quite, even from 
small and roving bands of Indians. But all too 
soon this state of things was changed, for in 
August, news reached Lexington and Bryant’s 
that the savages had commenced depredations 
at Hoyt’s Station near Boonesborough, and 
that Captain Holder had assembled a small 
force and had pursued them to the Upper Blue 
Lick, where he had been defeated with a loss 
of several men. All kinds of rumors now filled 
the air, and it was asserted that the notorious 
Simon Girty, at the head of several hundred 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. IO5 

Indians, was rapidly, advancing into the inte- 
rior. 

This proved to be the fact, but so sudden 
was the movement, and so unexpected to the 
whites, that the settlers were hardly prepared 
to meet it. 

In their usual stealthy manner the foe had 
crept up, to their very doors before their pres- 
ence was suspected. It, indeed, seemed that now 
the terrible fate which threatened them could 
not be averted. 

Bryant’s Station was situated on a bank 
which rose gently from Elkhorn Creek, and 
consisted of some forty cabins facing each other 
and joined at the end by palisades, forming a 
kind of court within ; but the defenses were sad- 
ly out of repair, for the settlers had become neg- 
ligent, and had been lulled into a feeling of com- 
parative security on account of the cessation of 
concentrated action against them for some 
length of time. 

The country round about was smiling, the 
corn in many fields was hardening in the ear, 
and the cattle in considerable numbers fed on 
the succulent grass in the clearings, or lazily 
chewed the cud beneath the shade of the trees 
on the hill sides and whisked the pestiferous 
fly from their backs and flanks, while the hot 
August sun shone down upon the earth. 

Jimmie Curry was with June on his farm, 
and had gone into Lexington on horseback on 
some errand. 


Io6 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

June himself was working around the house. 
He had been put on his guard somewhat by 
the reports which had reached him of the near- 
ness of the Indians; but he had not, any more 
than the rest, dreamed that any decided move- 
ment was to be made so soon in the immediate 
neighborhood. Nevertheless, with his exper- 
ience in Indian fighting, he occasionally glanc- 
ed across the clearing in the direction of the 
forest surrounding his farm with something 
of an anxious look. It was early in the fore- 
noon yet and he was not expecting Jimmie back 
so soon, but still he thought that he would feel 
better if Jimmie were with him. 

Other men from the station and vicinity 
were out and about their several occupations, so 
that only a comparatively small number of men 
were in the fort on this particular morning. 

On one occasion, when glancing up from his 
work, he thought that he saw a movement 
among the trees just beyond the edge of the 
clearing and nearest to the cabin ; and in order 
to be sure, if possible, he looked intently in the 
direction indicated, and then he saw distinctly 
an unusual agitation of the leaves in the un- 
der brush. 

He did not start up immediately, though the 
thing looked suspicious, but presently rose 
slowly and deliberately from his work and 
passed leisurely into the cabin. When once in- 
side his movements quickened into a nervous 
energy, and he quickly reached for his rifle on 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. IO7 

the rack against the wall, and began hastily to 
put on his bullet-pouch and powder-horn, and 
to fasten his belt, with hunting knife attached, 
around his waist. 

Not yet sure as to what caused the slight dis- 
turbance in the underbrush, he came cautiously 
forth from the house and began to approach 
the point to which his attention had been direc- 
ted. It was not more than two hundred yards 
distant from the door, and when he had reach- 
ed it, pushing the bushes aside, he saw where 
some of the twigs had been broken. He then 
proceeded further into the woods, still scan- 
ning closely every tree and shrub as he went, 
until at length he reached a tiny stream which 
still retained some moisture in its banks, 
though the bed of the stream was dry. 

He had begun to think that he had been 
needlessly alarmed, but just here, in a soft spot, 
he saw distinctly the imprint of a moccasined 
foot. 

He stooped down and examined it carefully, 
at the same time keeping a watch all around, 
and he knew that it had been made by the foot 
of an Indian. Then he made his way down to 
the Elkhorn, which ran past his place, and then 
he soon discovered unmistakable evidences that 
a large body of Indians had recently passed 
along the stream in the direction of Bryant’s. 

As he neared the station he found that the 
fields of corn served to conceal many savages. 


io8 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


and that in many places they lay crouched be- 
hind the bushes. These he avoided, and mak- 
a detour until within a few hundred yards of 
the station, he started to run for it. 

Then the savages rose and began to pursue 
him, and as they did so they poured a galling 
fire into the fort, which they had almost sur- 
rounded by this time. The rifle balls whistled 
around him in great numbers as he sped on like 
the wind. 

He saw other men like himself running to- 
ward the fort, and then altogether they reach- 
ed the gates, which were thrown open to admit 
them, and as they entered the gates closed be- 
hind them. 

June was well known at the station, and one 
man seized him and pulled him in, exclaiming, 
“Hello, June ; that was a close call for you fel- 
lers !" 

The little band within the fort were not to be 
intimated, however, although they had been 
taken by surprise, and the answering shots 
rang from the loop-holes from full fifty rifles. 

The savages now came into full view, and 
kept up a constant fire upon the palisades for 
some time, which was doggedly replied to from 
within. 

By this time the scene on the inner side of 
the stockades was one of animation and excite- 
ment; but not of fear or panic. Most of the 
men in that garrison were seasoned veterans in 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. - IO9 

Indian warfare, and knew that, though the ene- 
my were in overwhelming numbers before 
them, they must fight to the death. 

Here was presented a picture worthy of the 
genius of a great artist to paint — the perspir- 
ing and powder-grimed faces of the men, those 
faces set in grim determination and peering 
along the rifle barrels and through the loop- 
holes, their glances followed by the reports 
which carried death to many a savage warrior ; 
the return of the empty gun to the women to be 
freighted with another leaden messenger of 
death ; the bent form of the matron and the 
maid, as they stooped over the fire with bullet 
mould in hand ; the sight of even the children 
making themselves useful in this emergency by 
carrying water to the thirsty men at their posts, 
and renewing the fire on which the lead was 
melted ready for the bullet moulds, altogether 
this picture would have fired the artistic soul to 
its greatest effort. 

After an hour or so of this the fire of the 
enemy slackened as suddenly as it had begun, 
and soon after ceased altogether, and they with- 
drew to the shelter of the woods. 

Some little distance from the fort, and quite 
near the Elkhorn, was the spring from which 
the settlement obtained its supply of water. On 
both sides of the creek and up to within a few 
hundred yards of the fort the enemy had pitch- 
ed his camp in the woods. 


no 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


It was now discovered that the supply of 
water in the fort was exhausted, and it was ab- 
solutely impossible to prolong the struggle for 
even a short time unless water could be ob- 
tained. 

But how was this to be done ? 

It would be certain death for the men to un- 
dertake to reach the spring. They could not 
think of trying to force their way through the 
ranks of the enemy, for in case any of them 
chanced to escape death the women and chil- 
dren would be left to the mercy of the savages. 

Neither of these plans were to be thought of 
for a moment. Some other must be devised, 
but what should it be ? A council must be held 
and the matter seriously considered, and some- 
thing must be quickly done, or all would be 
lost. So the men got together and discussed 
this plan and that, but no satisfactory solution 
of the problem was arrived at. All sat looking 
despairingly and hopelessly into each other’s 
faces. 

At last, a man by the name of Johnson looked 
up, and spoke to his vis-avis, Mitchell : 

‘Tor God’s sake, Mitchell, can’t you suggest 
something?” 

The man addressed was a stalwart represent- 
ative of the Anglo-Saxon race ; he had fought 
with man an beast in the wilderness, he had 
become grizzled in life’s struggle, his courage 
was undoubted and he was respected and look- 
ed up to by all who knew him. He was rough 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


Ill 


and rugged in character, but he had one exceed- 
ingly soft spot in his heart, and that was always 
reached by his pretty daughter, Maggie. He 
had thought of a plan by which they might 
obtain water, but it was a very dangerous one, 
and one which he was loath to mention; and it 
was extremely doubtful whether those upon 
whom it would rest to successfully carry out 
this plan would consent to undertake it, even 
if they could bring themselves to ask it of them. 
At last he spoke, and every one listened 
breathlessly to his words : 

“I don’t see any way out of this, unless we 
can get the women to go to the spring and 
each one of them fetch back a bucket of water. 
I know that it is a desperate chance, and T 
would hate to ask it as much as any of you ; but 
it is the only hope I can see that we have. 

‘‘We are in a desperate situation” continued 
he, “and we have to take desperate chances. 
The Indians might not fire on the women ; but 
they would riddle us with bullets before we got 
half way to the spring.” 

“Look here, Mr. Mitchell,” broke in John- 
son, “would you let your Maggie go?” 

This c[uestion touched Mitchell to the core, 
but he answered almost without hesitation. 

“Yes, I would, because I believe it is the 
only way to save her, and all the rest of the 
women, from worse than death.” 

“Then,’*’ said Johnson, “by the Lordy ! we’ll 
do it, if the women are willing to try ; but mind 


II2 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


you boys, every one of you must be ready to 
leave this fort if anything happens to them, 
ready to get between the varmints and them, 
and to stay there until they are safe, or until 
we are all killed ?” 

And every man there present swore that he 
would rush to the rescue at the first sign of 
hostility, and would fight to the death. And 
this was no empty boast, for each one would 
have done as he had promised. 

So the women were called into the council, 
the proposition stated to them, the dangers and 
risks to be run made plain, as well as the prob- 
abilities of success. 

When they understood the matter, and what 
was expected of them, a hush fell on those 
assembled, and no one responded at first. But 
presently, amid the silence that hung like a pall 
over them, the tall and graceful form of a girl 
glided from among the women and stood erect 
in front of them, and Maggie Mitchell, with 
eyes flaming, and with head held high, spoke 
up : 

“I will go, if I have to go alone, for one 
bucket of water may save the settlement and all 
the lives in it.’' 

Then Johnson’s wife came to the front and 
volunteered to go, and then the rest of the 
women seemed to catch the enthusiasm, and 
eagerly pressed forward to offer to take part in 
the dangerous undertaking. 

And thus it was decided. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. II3 

Here was displayed the sublimest heroism. 
There was not one woman in that assembly but 
knew that an all-merciful Providence alone 
could save them, but they trusted and braved 
the danger. 

Nothing in the annals of the world’s history 
can surpass the courage here displayed, and 
very few incidents can equal it. 

And when these brave women were ready to 
start it was thought that something should be 
done to distract the attention of the savages, if 
possible, from them ; so it was decided to make 
a feint by way of a sortee from the gate oppo- 
site the one through which they must go in or- 
der to reach the spring most directly. 

Just before the procession of women started 
forth in the direction of the spring, each carry- 
ing a bucket, some twelve or fifteen men is- 
sued from the opposite gate and ran toward the 
forest where a good many of the savages were 
concealed. 

The desired object was accomplished, in 
some measure at least, for almost immediately 
numbers of the enemy, with wild yells of tri- 
umpth, ran to try to intercept and cut off the 
retreat of the sallying party to the fort. 

Our friend, June Stone had been one of the 
first to volunteer to join this undertaking. 

As soon as this little party saw that the ob- 
ject which they had in view had apparently 
been accomplished, they turned and fled toward 
the stockades. 


1 14 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

Two poor fellows, however, were killed; and 
another, who was wounded, June carried in on 
his shoulders. 

In the meantime the women had reached the 
spring and filled their buckets and were retrac- 
ing their steps. 

Ah, think of the suspense of those few 
moments, as those at the loop-holes and at the 
gate watched their progress with finger on trig- 
ger and scalping knife loosened in the shield 
ready for immediate use ; ready to fire and then 
to spring. 

To them it seemed hours before the buckets 
were filled. It was as if life itself was being 
temporarily suspended. The mental agonies in 
the death struggle could not have been more 
painful. 

But at last, wonderful to relate, the foot- 
steps of the women neared the gate — and then 
they entered it, and were safe. 

Not a shot had been fired at them ; not a start 
on the part of the savages, had been made in 
their direction ; and what is still more wonder- 
ful to relate, not one of the women, so far as 
could be noticed, had quickened her pace by 
the one-hundredth part of a second. 

I do not know how to account for their pres- 
ervation. Surely the Great Creator must have 
put into the heart of the American Indian a 
profound respect and admiration for courage, 
else how can we explain their non-interference 
on this occasion? 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Maggie’s father, when she stepped into the 
court within the walls, heaved a mighty sigh 
of relief, and took his daughter into an em- 
brace which he seemed loath to loosen. 

Of course the heroic women received their 
due meed of praise in time, but just now the 
enemy hidden along the creek in the woods, 
seeing the men leave the fort, and thinking that 
they had been enticed to leave the defences on 
account of the withdrawal of the savages into 
hiding, rushed out in full force, determined to 
storm the fort, which they supposed to be now 
empty of all save the women and children. 

So impetuous and rapid was the onslaught 
that it carried them to the very walls, and in 
some places they even succeeded in setting fire 
to the cabins with lighted torches which had 
been prepared for this very purpose. 

On they came, several hundred of them, 
pressed forward by the very weight of num- 
bers, but not so quickly as to prevent being met 
by a volley from the rifles of those who had re- 
mained in the fort when the whites made their 
sortee. And with such deadly effect was the 
fire delivered that many of the warriors bit the 


Il6 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

dust, and the attacking party was repulsed and 
driven back to the shelter of the woods and 
corn fields. 

In an incredibly short space of time, not a 
savage could be seen from the fort. 

Some of the men, assisted by the women and 
children, had in the meantime extinguished the 
flames. 

The siege continued, with almost constant 
firing, until sometime in the afternoon, when 
June, turning to Mitchell, near whom he was 
standing, said : 

“Don’t you hear shots over yonder toward 
Lexington? I reckon the boys are pitching 
into the red devils from the other side.” 

“Yes,” replied Mitchell, “the men we sent 
out this morning must have got through all 
right, but I tell you there’s a big lot of Indians 
out yonder.” 

Presently he spoke again. 

“Listen, June, you are right; there’s a fight 
going on over tother side of that woods.” 

Even while this conversation was going on, 
ten or a dozen horsemen came galloping up to 
the gates. They had ridden through the ene- 
my’s lines and on to the fort. They were im- 
mediately admitted, and they told how the mes- 
sengers who had been despatched on horseback 
from Bryant’s had reached the settlement at 
Lexington, which they found to be deserted by 
the men folk, who had started to aid in the suc- 
cor of the settlement at Hoyt’s that the messen- 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. II7 

gers had then pushed on and had overtaken the 
detachment from Lexington several miles from 
the town, and that they had then altogether 
turned back, after the situation at Bryant’s had 
been explained; that they were soon joined by 
a number of volunteers from Boonesborough, 
who were on their way to Lexington to join in 
a proposed advance against the Indians, who 
were known to have crossed the Ohio. They 
explained that their number was increased in 
this way to about fifty men, and that they then 
came upon the savages, who had formed an am- 
bush for them just about a mile from Bryant’s, 
that they had cut their way through, and now 
here they were. 

It seems that the greater part of their num- 
ber were afoot, and that the horsemen had left 
these engaging the enemy in a corn field at no 
great distance away. 

With this party of riders came Jimmie Cur- 
ry, and one of the men told June that the boy 
had fought like the devil and had ridden like 
mad, leading the party all the way, while the 
red devils peppered away at them from both 
sides. 

Stone’s heart had a mighty load lifted from 
it when he saw Jimmie safe, for he loved the 
boy, and he felt that he was responsible for his 
safety, since he had been with him when the 
trouble began. 

One of the first questions Jimmie put to 
Stone was : 


Il8 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

“How’s Maggie?” 

“She’s all right, my boy, and as brave as 
any woman living; or as any man, either, for 
that matter,” answered Stone. 

Then he told Jimmie how the women had 
brought water from the spring, and of Mag- 
gie’s part in the incident. And Jimmie’s heart 
swelled with pride, and of a great love for 
Maggie. 

All this while the fight had been progressing 
in the corn field and through the woods, and 
along the road toward Lexington ; and the vol- 
ley of rifle shots were heard at intervals until 
the sound of them were lost in the distance. 
Then those in the fort at Bryant’s knew that 
the balance of the rescuing party had been 
beaten back. 

The attack on the station was continued 
until the sun went down, when the firing ceas- 
ed, and Girty appeared in person on thf scene. 
He approached quite near the fort, and shelter- 
ing himself behind a stump hailed the garrison 
and demanded its surrender, stating that he 
wished to prevent the shedding of more blood, 
at the same time declaring that further resist- 
ance would be useless, as he expected to have 
cannon within a few hours with which to batter 
down the defences. In which event, he contin- 
ued, a terrible massacre awaited the devoted 
garrison, and that when they were once in the 
power of the Indians, with the thirst for blood 
and the desire for vengeance upon them, he 


In the footsteps of boone. 119 

could not control them, and would not be an- 
swerable for the consequences. 

He was listened to with patience until he had 
finished, and some began to waiver in their de- 
termination to fight to the end, thinking they 
might rely on Girty’s implied promise for pro- 
tection. But Captain Craig, who was in com- 
mand; and Mitchell, and Johnson, and Stone, 
and Jimmie Curry, and others did not trust the 
words of the renegrade leader ; and when Girty 
asked if they knew him, Aaron Reynolds, a 
young man of the garrison, promptly replied 
that he was well known ; that he, Reynolds, had 
a dog which so worthless that he had named 
him Simon Girty; and that there was such a 
strong likeness between the dog and the man of 
that name that no one who had ever seen both 
could fail to recognize it. 

Reynolds also told Girty that if he had any 
cannon he might bring them and be d — d ; that 
if he or any of his naked rascals got into the 
fort they would drive them out with switches 
which they had gathered for that very purpose ; 
and that they, too, were expecting reinforce- 
ments at any moment, and that the whole 
country would soon be down on him and his 
gang of cut-throats, and that the Indians would 
leave a big lot of scalps to be dried on the roofs 
of the cabins. 

Girty did not relish the language of the 
plucky young man, and retired, expressing re- 
gret for the manner in which his words had 


120 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


been received, and predicting that inevitable de- 
struction awaited the little settlement. 

But the words and bearing of their young 
comrade had their effect on the doubtful ones, 
and nothing more was said about surrender. 

The night passed peacefully and quietly, 
and the next morning it was found that the In- 
dian camp was deserted, though the fires were 
still burning and pieces of meat were found 
roasting on the coals. The enemy had evi- 
dently quitted the neighborhood very suddenly. 

Afterwards, and at his leisure, we may be 
sure Jimmie found time to talk over the occur- 
rences of the preceding twenty-four hours with 
his Maggie, and may we not believe also that 
he did not fail to assure her of his anxiety on 
her account, and of his joy at her safety. 

The men of those days were about as quick 
with their declarations of love as with their 
declarations of hostility, and it was not thought 
necessary to prolong the period of courtship 
beyond reasonable limits. 

Young men and maidens of that day did 
not think it necessary to wait until a comforta- 
ble bank account was placed to their credit ; or 
for a brass knocker to be put on “the big front 
door” before entering into the marriage rela- 
tion. 

It was sufficient that they love each other, and 
that they were content to work together 
through the years to the fulfilment of a ripe old 
age, in the consciousness of a destiny finished 
in honesty of purpose. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


I2I 


While these events were transpiring word 
had been sent to Harrodsburg and Boones- 
borough, and to the men in the vicinity of 
these places and of Lexington, and as many as 
possible were hastily assembled, so that within 
forty-eight hours after the Indians had retired 
from the neighborhood of Bryant’s, a company 
of nearly two hundred men, all hardy pioneers, 
was gathered at Bryant’s Station, armed and 
eager for the pursuit of the savages; with John 
and Levi Todd, and Patterson from Lexing- 
ton; Trigg from Harrodsburg and Boone from 
Boonesborough in command, respectively, of 
detachments from these several settlements. 
And there was also with them from Harrods- 
burg, M’Gary and Harlan, and Uncle Enoch 
Curry and George Beatty had also reported for 
duty. 

A council of war was immediately called, 
and it was decided to pursue the enemy without 
waiting for Colonel Benjamin Logan, who was 
rapidly recruiting more volunteers, and who 
was, by the way, the commander-in-chief of all 
the militia in that section of the country, al- 
though it had been ascertained that the foe out- 
numbered them fully three to one. 

Shall we pause to view this array of men as 
it rested there on the banks of the Elkhorn be- 
fore starting on its way? 

There was no such discipline as is now seen 
in military organizations. In fact, owing to 
the wild condition of the country outside of the 


122 


In the footsteps of boone. 


clearings, and to the character of the warfare 
in which they were engaged, it would have been 
impossible to have gone into battle in the ap- 
proved and orderly manner in which it it done 
in these days. A compact line of battle, for 
instance, could not have been maintained, and 
would have been of little avail against the tac- 
tics of the savage foe. Possibly the maneu- 
vers of a party of skirmishers and sharpshoot- 
ers in front of a modern army would be more 
akin to the movements and manner of proced- 
ure of the fighters of those days, when going 
into battle in force, than anything else seen on 
a modern battlefield. 

Standing a little apart from the main body 
of the men, in the shade of a tree, were the 
leaders talking earnestly in subdued tones. 
Some were in favor of waiting until Logan 
had joined them with his reinforcements, oth- 
ers contended that they were sufficiently strong 
to strike a telling blow at the retreating ene- 
my, and that to delay the pursuit longer would 
be to lose the opportunity altogether. The men 
were all more or less versed in Indian warfare, 
and, among the rank and file, none more so 
than Uncle Enoch Curry, Mitchell and June 
Stone. 

It was finally decided to endeavor, to over- 
take the Indians ere they had crossed the Ohio, 
and it was hoped to visit dire punishment on 
them. 

So both horse and foot — mostly horse, how- 
ever started, and toward noon of the next day 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. I23 

they reached the Licking River, near the Upper 
Blue Lick Spring, and the Indians were seen 
on the opposite side of the stream, some of 
them leisurely ascending a rocky ridge in full 
view. 

Here our little army came to a halt and the 
leaders had another consultation, for to some 
of them it seemed a very suspicious circum- 
stance that the savages did not seem at all anx- 
ious about concealing their movements. 

Daniel Boone, whom all acknowledged had 
had, perhaps, more experience than the rest, 
was called upon directly to express his opinion 
of the situation and to give his council as to 
what should be done in the circumstances. 

He advised either to await the arrival of 
Logan, whom they could reasonably expect to 
follow and to overtake them before a great 
while, or else to reconnoitre and so arrange the 
little force that it might proceed cautiously, 
guarding against surprise, before engaging in 
a general attack. 

But before any definite action could be taken 
on either of these, and similar suggestions 
from others, one of the officers — one well up 
in rank in the little army — becoming impatient 
at the delay, urged his horse into the river, at 
the same time shouting to those whom he pass- 
ed : 

“Those who are not cowards, follow me; I 
will show you were the Indians are.” 


124 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

Such a call was enough, and more than 
enough, for the brave, but undisciplined men, 
and almost as soon as his words were spoken 
the whole body of men were crowding, push- 
ing, and hurrying to cross the river. 

The cooler-headed and less impetuous of the 
leaders sought to restore order, but were borne 
along with the crowd. However, they partially 
succeeded in accomplishing this object by the 
time the majority had crossed. 

All too soon, the fight was on, and soon be- 
came general, though the commands were iso- 
lated to a considerable extent. 

The contingent from Harrodsburg seemed 
to be well in hand, with Trigg at their head, 
and were fighting nobly. 

The little army was now following a ridge, 
either side of which was bordered with young 
trees and shrubbery, descending into ravines 
which flanked the ridge on both sides, and sud- 
denly a terrible rifle fire was poured into it 
from these ravines. 

They had succeeded in forming something 
of a line of battle along the ridge, extending 
from well up the same and down toward the 
river, and the fire of the enemy, though a great 
surprise to most of the men, was returned with 
spirit, and the fight continued for a time with 
some show of stubbornness ; but the odds 
against the whites was so great, and the 
slaughter so terrific, that the none too compact 
ranks began to thin out and to waver. Besides, 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 1 25 

the savages had succeeded in outflanking the 
whites and had gotten in their rear, and then it 
was that the line gave way and soon all was 
confusion, and each individual sought safety in 
flight. A mad rush was made for the river, 
and each one, wild with panic-stricken terror, 
sought to recross as best he could. 

Our friend, June Stone, after the battle on 
the ridge had become a rout, sought out the 
company from Harrodsburg, so as to be near 
his friends, the Currys, father and son, and 
George Beatty, and he found them and they 
fought side by side for a time. 

They saw Colonel Trigg fall, pierced by a 
bullet; they heard the savage yell of triumph 
as their foes jumped from cover and came to- 
ward them, tomahawk in hand and raised to 
strike, and then Stone clubbed his rifle and 
seized Jimmie Curry by the collar of his hunt- 
ing shirt, and started with him in the mad 
rush, the friends being borne along with the 
tide of struggling humanity endeavoring to 
escape present danger. 

Presently they were brought to a sudden 
stop, as the faces of a dozen painted savages 
closed around them. As quick as thought 
Stone cried out : 

“Club your rifles boys, and give ’em h-11 ! Now 
keep as close together as you can.” 

One poor fellow fell with his head split by a 
tomahawk, but up and down swung the rifles 
and fell on the heads of the savages who came 


126 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


within the radii of the circumference formed by 
the rotary motions of those handling the guns. 

All this happened in a few moments, and then 
came a leap by Stone, with a cry of, “Now, run 
for it!’^ 

And away they went toward the river with 
the Indians in hot pursuit. Stone and Beatty 
had hunted over this ground and knew some- 
thing of its lay, and their comrades followed 
them closely, down ravine, through underbrush 
and over ridge, and thus the little party soon 
lost sight of their pursuers, who then went af- 
ter others of the fugitives. Our friends reach- 
ed the river and crossed to the opposite side in 
safety. 

Then they stopped and loaded their rifles, 
and seeing many of their friends struggling in 
the water, and still others being struck down 
on the other bank by the bloody tomahawk, 
they lingered to fire, as did others who had 
crossed, and thus for a brief space stayed the 
pursuit and massacre of those in sight and en- 
abled some of them to escape. 

But alas, the route had become general ; and 
already Todd had fallen, and Harlan had fal- 
len ; and Boone, with his brave fellows, having 
stood as long as it was possible, stubbornly 
yielding the ground inch by inch, at last, with 
half their number slain, gave way and joined 
in the flight to the river — their commander 
bearing in his arms the stricken form of his 
son to a place where he might see him die un- 
molested. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 1 27 

When a few hundred yards back from the 
river June noticed that Uncle Enoch was lag- 
ging behind and walking rather unsteadily, so 
he stopped and asked, 

“What’s the matter. Uncle Enoch, are you 
hurt?” 

“Well,” responded Mr. Curry, at the same 
time, opening the bosom of his shirt. “I reckon 
they just touched me up a little over yonder, on 
the ridge.” 

And so they had, as the blood-stained shirt 
showed, as well as the little stream trickling 
down his chest. 

“If I can get you a horse. Uncle Enoch, do 
you think you can make it ?” asked June. 

“Yes, June, I reckon I can; but horses don’t 
seem to be very plentiful round here just about 
this time.” 

Nevertheless June started off in search of 
one, thinking it more than likely that he would 
run across a stray animal whose rider had been 
shot, or one which had been lost in the confu- 
sion. 

George Beatty and Jimmie stayed with the 
old man, and soon had his wound bound up 
with strips from their shirts, stopping the flow 
of blood to a very considerable extent. 

They lay very quietly in the bushes, waiting, 
not wishing to invite any encounter with the 
Indians under present conditions. Several 
times they heard the rustle of the bushes at no 
great distance from their place of concealment. 


128 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


an on one or two occasions the sound of run- 
ning feet reached them. 

On each repetition of these sounds Jimmie’s 
finger sought the trigger, but George would 
lay a detaining hand on his arm. 

Almost constantly, for the first quarter of an 
hour, shots rang through the forest and echoed 
along the hills. 

“Hist, George — look,” whispered Jimmie, 
and as he uttered the words a white man ran 
panting almost in reach of him. He was evi- 
dently about exhausted and could not possibly 
go much further. 

He had not gotten more than out of sight 
before an Indian in pursuit, with tomahawk in 
hand, came forging through the bushes. 

This was more than Jimmie could stand, and 
with a real pain in his heart, nevertheless with 
a mighty desire to kill, he raised his rifle and 
fired. 

The man being pursued had a look on his 
face which Jimmie never forgot to his dying 
day. A hunted, despairing, wildly-appealing 
look in his eyes. He knew that his enemy had 
him almost in his grasp, he felt the cold touch 
of Death’s finger on his heart already, and he 
understood that in the solitude of the mighty 
forest he was to die, without one friendly look 
or smile to cheer him on his lonely way. 

Did you, gentle reader, ever see a litter of 
puppies drowned? Puppies with their eyes 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 1 29 

open, and looking so wonderingly and inno- 
cently out upon the world ? If so, did you stop 
to look into those eyes, and what did you see 
in them ? What was it that appealed to you so 
forcibly and caused you to turn your eyes in 
another direction? 

At any rate, something like that was what 
Jimmie saw in the fugitive’s eyes, and sent the 
hot blood to his head and maddened him be- 
yond self control. 

O, the pity of that look in man or animal ! 

The Indian was running at so great a rate of 
speed that when he fell he plunged forward 
some distance before his face struck the ground. 

“Take father’s rifle, Jimmie,” said George, 
“and keep under cover, for there may be more 
of them coming this way.” 

No more came, however, but in a few min- 
utes June came in sight, riding one horse and 
leading another. 

He had found one of them standing by the 
body of a white man who had been killed not 
far from the river, and while returning with 
his capture he had met Jack Simpson and some 
others, and when he told them of Uncle 
Enoch’s condition. Jack got down and told him 
to take his horse, too, as somebody would have 
to be with Uncle Enoch to take care of him, in 
case the balance of them got separated from 
him; and then Jack jumped up behind another 
man and they started off before anything more 
could be said. 


CHAPTER XV. 


Mr. Curry was assisted to mount one of the 
horses and George Beatty sprang to the back of 
the other, then with June and Jimmie walking, 
the little party started to make their way back 
to Lexington and Bryant’s. 

The remaining portion of the small army 
which had gone out two days before with such 
enthusiasm and bright hopes was now in full 
retreat. A large proportion of those who had 
escaped were scattered, and men, singly or in 
small parties, were making their way through 
the forest in the direction of the settlements as 
rapidly as possible. 

That portion of the force which had been 
brought together after crossing the river moved 
in a somewhat orderly manner, and had taken 
a more direct route in retracing their steps. 
They were met when yet some distance from 
Lexington, by Colonel Logan, with the force 
he had succeeded in gathering, on their way to 
join the main body which had just been so ter- 
ribly defeated. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. I31 

Many of the latter were induced to turn 
back, wishing to wipe out the disgrace of their 
defeat, and the march against the enemy was 
once more resumed. 

The Indians, too, had scattered and spread 
out through the surrounding country in pur- 
suit of the different squads or individuals, and 
not a few of the white men were overtaken and 
lost their lives amid the shades of the silent for- 
est, or crept away through the undergrowth 
from the scenes of hand-to-hand conflicts, leav- 
ing the prostrate form of the foe for the re- 
quiem of the soughing winds. 

Colonel Patterson’s horse had been shot 
from from under him in the battle, and it was 
with difficulty that he was making his way 
among the rest toward the river on foot. His 
years were against him in this mad scramble, 
as well as his weight, and it is doubtful whether 
he would have escaped the tomahawk. The 
shouts of the savages could be heard drawing 
nearer and nearer, as he fell behind in the 
race, and even if he escaped immediate capture 
or death, it was a long way to Lexington, and 
he could hardly hope to reach there without 
assistance. 

We can well believe that he thought of his 
wife and family, as death seemed to be drawing 
near so rapidly, of the fireside comforts that 
awaited his return; and we may imagine that 
he could see with his mind’s eye the glad smile 
of welcome, and feel in anticipation the loving 


132 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

clasp of her arms as his wife rested her head 
on his breast and closed her eyes in silent 
thanksgiving for his safe return. 

Ah, must it all be given up, must he no more 
look out on the broad acres of woodland and 
field and meadow that were his and theirs, nor 
ever more gather around the ample fireplace 
with her and the little ones? 

When he 'had joined this expedition he had 
left behind a life of comparative ease and com- 
fort; and when his wife had come to Kentucky 
she had left behind, back yonder where the 
ever-restless waves of the broad Atlantic wash 
the shore, a life of luxury and peace and quiet, 
and he had brought her and his children to this 
— to what ? 

The future, up to now, had seemed to hold a 
great store of happiness and comfort in its 
keeping for them. Already time had brought 
many friends to them in this new land Already 
around his hospitable board had gathered in 
friendly intercourse those who wielded the des- 
tinies of this adventurous people; and hearty 
laughter and merry jest had gladdened the 
heart as the hours sped, without detracting 
from the serious contemplation and discussion 
of matters of moment. 

Then he thought of how at other times the 
music of bow and string and harpsichord had 
quickened the pulses and regulated the move- 
ments of the dancers as they bent in the stately 
yet graceful minuet, or glided between the rows 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. I33 

of pretty faces and stalwart forms in the more 
exhilerating time of the reel. He recollected 
that sometimes at these functions the pictur- 
esque garb of the hunter would appear, usually 
to be seen in some remote corner, or at the 
doors or windows; but more frequently the 
frilled shirt and the knee breeches were in evi- 
dence. And as the wearer of these last bent in 
graceful deference over the hand of fair 
maiden clad in silk and laces, and bright eyes 
looked back coquettishly into eyes that spoke of 
love, the pride of birth and the polish of edu- 
cation gave distinction to the assembly. 

We may be quite sure that all these thoughts 
came to him and flitted through his mind in 
rapid succession, as the sound of a horse’s hoofs 
reached his outward ear. 

Ah, to what had be brought them? To all 
this — but if death came to him now, this cruel 
death here in the untamed forest, it would 
bring to them a lifelong sorrow. The widow- 
ed heart would not forget, and the younger 
lives would go on with the memory of some- 
thing pleasant lost to them. 

But if he must die, he would die like a man, 
and make it cost his executioners dear. He 
drew his sword from its scabbard and cocked 
his pistol, and prepared to make as good a fight 
as possible. 

But just at this crisis in his affairs a voice 
reached him. 


134 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

“Colonel, take my horse, I am young and 
strong, and I can get along all right on foot.” 

Could he believe his ears? 

A mighty sigh of relief escaped the Colonel’s 
breast, and he felt as the drowning man feels 
when some hand has reached him to pull him 
from the water. Still he hesitated to take what 
was offered by the young man, for it was Rey- 
nolds, the same youth who had defied Girty 
only a few days before at the siege of Bryant’s 
Station. Life, happiness — happiness not only 
of himself, but of others as well depended on 
his accpetance of this offer — years of useful- 
ness, perhaps, full of chances for doing good 
for his country and for his people; but still he 
hesitated. Reynolds insisted, and was down 
on the ground at the Colonel’s side in a 
moment. 

The shots and the yells of the savages were 
drawing ever nearer, and the two could hear 
the crackling of twigs under running feet — 
.not a moment was to be lost. 

Reynolds said no more, but thrusting the 
bridle reins into the Colonel’s hand he darted 
into the woods and was out of sight in a flash. 

There was only one thing to be done now. 
The Colonel mounted the horse and made good 
his escape. It was a long and hard ride, but 
he reached Lexington in safety. 

Colonel Patterson did not forget his deliv- 
erer, and not long afterwards, when things had 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 135 

quieted down, he placed a deed for two hun- 
dred acres of land in Reynold’s hand. 

In the years that have come and gone since, 
this story is told by many a cosy fire in the city 
which has grown around the site of the old 
blockhouse and spring, near which Colonel 
Patterson and young Reynolds lived so long 
ago ; and this deed of generousity and chivalry 
and its generous acknowledgment is treasured 
among the precious and noteworthy things in 
its history. 


CHAPTER XVL 


Enoch Curry and his little party proceeded 
as rapidly as possible, and though the motion 
of the horse was very painful to him and often 
started the blood to flowing afresh from his 
wound, he would not stop nor make any sign 
of suffering. And so the night came upon 
them as they struck the trail of the retreating 
column, which they continued to follow. They 
must needs be cautious now, for not only were 
they liable to attack from the rear; but they 
might run upon some of the foe who had gone 
ahead in pursuit of the main body. 

Jimmie walked some yards in front, and fol- 
lowing him rode Uncle Enoch and George side 
by side, and Stone brought up the rear. Thus 
they proceeded for about an hour, probably, 
without incident, when suddenly the reins of 
George’s bridle were seized and a wild yell 
broke the silence, and the dark form of a half 
dozen savages rose from the sides and in front 
of them. 

But as sudden and as rapid as was this move- 
ment of the savages, equally as quick was Jim- 
mie with his rifle, and its report rang out on 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. I37 

the air, and instantly the grip on George’s 
bridle was loosened, and the horses, urged on 
by their riders, sprang forward, and as they 
passed Jimmie, George made a grab for the 
younger man’s hand, which he was successful 
in grasping. With this help Jimmie succeeded 
in keeping alongside the horse until they were 
well out of reach and sight in the semi-dark- 
ness. Of course the Indians were not idle while 
this was going on, for almost as quick as the 
riders rushed past them, they sent a volley in 
pursuit. 

Stone’s rifle, had in the meantime, stopped 
one of the pursuers, and thus their attention 
was distracted and they turned to meet the foe 
in their rear, the fugitives being lost to sight 
in the next instant. 

Stone was now cut off from his friends and 
confronted by four savages, who rushed 
back upon him with tomahawks raised to strike. 
June clubbed his rifle and met the onslaught 
with the courage and determination born of 
desperation. 

This unequal combat might have had a dif- 
ferent sequel if at this moment other savages 
had not come running from in the direction in 
which our little party of friends had been 
going. As it was, June was soon surrounded, 
but he still fought on until the leveled rifles of 
a dozen savages warned him that the game was 
up. 


138 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

Ah, he had been trapped this time, but he 
had enabled his friends to escape. 

He threw down his rifle and calmly folded 
his arms across his breast in token of surren- 
der, and stood erect, looking unflinchingly at 
his assailants. 

They' quickly relieved him of his hunting 
knife, then proceeded to bind his hands behind 
him. Then they held a short consultation, 
after which he was given a push and started in 
the direction which his retreating friends had 
taken, with an Indian at each side and another 
directly behind him. In this manner he was 
. forced to travel with them until near morning, 
when the party halted near a small spring to eat 
and to rest. 

June was given food and water, and allowed 
to lie down, with his arms still bound. Not a 
very comfortable situation to be sure, but he 
was weary and footsore, and he was grateful 
for even this small courtesy. His thoughts 
were not pleasant ones, we may well surmise; 
in fact, he was fast giving way to despair, for 
he knew full well what his probable fate was to 
be, though the end might be delayed until it 
suited the humor and convenience of his cap- 
tors. 

Before very long they were joined by other 
warriors, some with scalps dangling from their 
belts ; these came and stood over June as he lay 
upon the ground, and pointed significantly at 
the scalps and then at him. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 1 39 

Soon a big buck, who seemed to be the leader, 
gave him a kick, saying at the same time in En- 
glish, “Ugh, up ; walk dong.” 

The party was soon on the move again, but 
this time in an opposite direction from that fol- 
lowed during the night. All that day they 
traveled at an easy gait, stopping at noon to 
eat and rest again, and about dark that evening 
they stopped and built a fire on the bank of a 
stream, which June afterwards knew to be 
Cooper’s Run, not far from the old Ruddle’s 
Station, in what was afterwards Bourbon 
County. 

Ere long the Indians, lying on the ground 
some little distance from the fire, which was al- 
lowed gradually to burn down to ashes, began 
to make themselves as comfortable as possible, 
and to prepare for sleeping, for they had not 
had any rest for many hours. June lay with 
an Indian on either side and almost touching 
him. The Indians knew that there was no 
enemy near them, and did not deem it neces- 
sary to place any watch during the night; and 
another thing they did not know that their 
prisoner was the redoubtable “Shooting 
Knife.” He was securely bound between two 
of their number, and could scarcely move with- 
out waking one or both of them, they thought. 
They felt that he had no chance of escaping, if 
he should make the attempt ; and so did he, for 
that matter, unless something unexpected 


140 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

should happen. He lay perfectly stilly and al- 
most without conscious thought, for a time, for 
he was very weary. 

The silent stars, peeping here and there - 
through the foliage of the trees, looked down 
upon him, and one particular star seemed to 
concentrate its gaze on him and to rivet his at- 
tention upon itself, until it began to speak to 
his mind of life, of hope and of escape. He 
turned upon his side — there lay the athletic 
form of a savage within less than a foot of 
him. He saw the scalping knife in the belt 
and the rifle laying across the arm in the bend 
of the elbow, and that their eyes were closed in 
slumber. He then rolled over on to his back, 
as if the position he had just occupied was un- 
comfortable, and as he did so he saw the Indian 
on the other side of him raise up and prop him- 
self on his elbow, at the same time reaching for 
his knife. 

June quickly closed his eyes and gave a 
sleepy yawn. The savage was in easy touch of 
him, and now to make sure that his prisoner 
was still secure, felt him over; and seemingly 
satisfied with the result of his investigation, 
lay back with a grunt of satisfaction. June lay 
quite still again, but his mind was active, and 
the thoughts came surging through his brain 
very rapidly now. 

O, if he only had his hands free, then he 
might make a dash for life. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. I4I 

His wrists, however, were bound together 
behind his back, tight enough, it would seem, 
with thongs of buffalo hide, and it was impos- 
sible to loosen them. He could not reach the 
thongs with even the tips of his bent fingers. 
He tried to do so, but it was useless ; and be- 
sides the strain in attempting to do it, made the 
thongs cut into his flesh and gave exquisite 
pain. 

Just on the other side of the fire, at the foot 
of a tree, lay one of his captors, with his rifle 
resting against the trunk. He saw this picture 
in one of the sudden bursts of flame from the 
fire before it died out entirely — and he remem- 
bered it. 

The night wore on, and of course, finally 
came to an end; but June never forgot the 
agony of mind of those hours. 

He thought of Mollie, and George, and of 
Jimmie, and of his friends back in the settle- 
ments, and wondered if he should ever see them 
again in this life? 

Life seemed, ah, so sweet to him now, when 
he was about to give way to despair, and it 
might be that he Avas to die in the morning. A 
thousand desperate plans by which he might 
effect his escape flashed through his brain ; but, 
alas, none of them seemed feasible on second 
thought. 

At every slightest movement the tightening 
of the bands which bound him reminded him 


142 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

that he could do nothing. In one of his scarce- 
ly perceptible, though restless movements, his 
back came in contact with some hard substance 
beneath it, too pronounced to be merely an un- 
evenness in the ground. He pressed his form 
against it — and, yes, it was a stick or stone, and 
very near to his hands. 

He dare not make any sudden movement, for 
though the Indians beside him were in the 
deepest slumber of the night, he knew that they 
would be easily awakened. He became con- 
vinced by this time, from the feel of the sub- 
stance beneath his back, that it was a stick or 
stone, and he began very cautiously to work 
his body in such a way that he might be ena- 
bled to touch it with his fingers. The stone was 
only a few inches from the tips of his fingers, 
but it was no easy job to reach it under the cir- 
cumstances. 

At last, however, he felt it touch his hand, 
but it seemed that he had been hours accom- 
plishing this, though as a matter of fact it was 
only a few minutes. Then he raised the small of 
his back by resting on his elbows and head 
and the lower part of his body, and moved 
slowly and deliberately until the stone rested 
between the fingers of either hand. It was not 
a large stone, probably about twice the size of 
a hen’s egg; but it had a flat side on which it 
now rested, and the top edge was sharp and 
ridged. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. I43 

Ah, now June had an inspiration, and it 
flashed on him like a sunbeam in intensity, but 
like lightning in rapidity. He could, he 
thought, keep the stone in position with the 
ends of his fingers, and by the motion of his 
body, while pressing his weight upon it, saw 
the thongs in two. 

He knew he must work cautiously and as 
rapidly as possible. So he began the experi- 
ment, noiselessly moving his body horizontally 
from head to foot in such manner as to bring 
the sharp but jagged edge of the stone back 
and forth across the thongs. His flesh was 
torn and lacerated, until at each crossing of the 
stone against the thongs he was in agony, and 
the sweat stood in great beads on his forehead, 
or ran down his temples like drops of molten 
lead. 

He must work on, though; hope was in his 
heart, he felt the sweet taste of the cup of life 
come to him anew, and he would not cease his 
efforts. He might soon be free, he thought; 
free to lose his life, at least, in the attempt to 
escape. 

But suddenly he ceased to work, and lay per- 
fectly still, for he heard the gutteral sound of 
the Indian’s voice beside him, and he closed 
his eyes and pretended to be asleep. 

Ah, was all his labor and suffering in vain, 
and were his hopes to be blasted just as he felt 
that he was making progreSvS toward the con- 
summation of his release? 


144 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

Wait — he listens with nerves at acutest ten- 
sion, he Opens his eyes and steals a glance 
around. The Indian still sleeps. He was 
dreaming, and was doubtless wandering in 
Elysian fields with dusky maiden by his side. 

June did not care to disturb the happy vision, 
if such it was, at any rate; and remained very 
still for some minutes, and then, having be- 
come convinced that slumber had resumed its 
full sway over the senses of his guardian, he 
resumed his labors, while murmuring to him- 
self, ‘^Sleep, oh blessed sleep, enfold this thy 
dusky son in thy mantle, and entice him with 
sweetest dreams to draw yet closer its folds 
around him.” 

Presently — yes — the thong snapped, and im- 
mediately June began to feel a pricking, ting- 
ling sen.sation in his arms and in his hands, 
even down to the ends of his fingers. ’Twas 
the blood surging back into and through the 
veins, the flow of which had been dammed up 
and kept back by the pressure of the thongs. 

Now, now for freedom; but no, he must be 
cautious still. He must restrain himself and 
take time to think what shall be his next move. 
He has it — he must secure that knife from the 
belt of the sleeping savage on his right, first; 
but he must be careful, he must approach 
stealthily, using the utmost caution and cun- 
ning. Still he lay quietly, mapping out his plan 
of campaign, as it were. He knows by their reg- 
ular breathing that the two savages are in the 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. I45 

deepest sleep and that now, if ever, is the time 
for action. 

He feels his wrists and ascertains that they 
are in their normal condition, save for the lac- 
erating which the stone has given them, and 
he raises slowly and carefully on his elbow, 
then slides up closer and yet closer to the sav- 
age with the knife in his belt. He looks around, 
the other Indian is sleeping peacefully; he 
reaches forth with his right hand and cau- 
tiously moves it toward the handle of the 
knife; he touches it, not a movement on the 
part of the prostrate form beside him. 

And now June begins to pull it very gently 
from its sheath, and now he has it in his hand 
— tightly grasped in his good right hand. He 
has worked out his plan so far, and we shall see 
how the balance of it was carried out. 

The chances were yet almost overwhelming- 
ly against him, but he must risk all now. His 
left hand moves rapidly toward the throat of 
his sleeping enemy, and in the next moment he 
is on his knees, and then his fingers close in a 
vise-like clasp on the throat of the savage, 
while the knife in the other hand sinks to the 
hilt into the Indian’s body and through the 
heart. 

It seemed a cold-blooded thing to do, but it 
was the only way, and there was no time to 
stop and think about it or to moralize on the 
subject. A moment’s hesitation might have 


146 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

destroyed his prospects of escape from a horri- 
ble death or a degrading captivity. 

With a bound, June was on his feet, and as 
quick as thought leaped over the body of his 
slain foe and across the embers of the dying 
fire. Straight to the tree where the rifle stood 
against it, he ran, and as he passed like a flash 
he snatched up the weapon. 

From the time he rose to his feet until now 
was but a second, nevertheless the other Indian 
who had slept beside him was on his feet also, 
and just as June secured the rifle the Indian 
fired and the bark flew from the tree past 
which he ran. 

In a moment every Indian was on his feet; 
but in the confusion of being so suddenly 
awakened and receiving the hurried explana- 
tion of the commotion from the first awakened 
warrior, June was enabled to gain a start of 
several yards, and this was a good deal in that 
thickly wooded country and to a man running 
for his life. 

As we know, June was an experienced 
woodsman and a swift runner, and he took ad- 
vantage of every art taught him by experience 
to evade his pursuers. 

The Indians followed him for a mile or 
more, and many shots were fired in the direc- 
tion in which it was thought he had taken; 
but at last, becoming convinced that their late 
prisoner had escaped them, and being anxious 
to rejoin the main body of their friends, who 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. I47 

were even then hastening to leave the country, 
they abandoned the pursuit. 

June did not stop until he had placed several 
miles between himself and the place from 
where he had escaped, and when daylight 
began to make its appearance he climbed a 
large oak tree and hid himself among its leaf- 
covered branches, and there he remained until 
he thought that all probability of further pur- 
suit was over. 

The savages who had followed him had in 
the meantime returned to the camp, where they 
found their comrade still sleeping as they had 
left him. His soul had departed on its long 
journey without a sign. 


CHAPTER XVIL 


June remained hidden in the tree until the 
sun was high in the heavens and all signs of 
pursuit were gone, then he came down and be- 
gan cautiously and silently to make his way 
through the woods in a direction which would 
take him further away from the place where 
he had lain bound the previous night. 

Of course he knew the general direction to 
take in order to reach Lexington, but for the 
present he would endeavor to find the stream 
on the bank of which they had camped so late- 
ly and seek a secluded spot where he could 
safely rest and be near the water at the same 
time. 

He thought that after resting for awhile he 
would proceed on his way home, and before 
very long he reached the stream and stooped 
down to drink of its water and to bathe his 
swollen wrists and hands. 

He was thus engaged when he heard the re- 
ports of several rifles in quick succession at no 
great distance up the stream, and, listening, he 
was quite sure he could hear the cries of 
women. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. I49 

Without further hesitation he ran in the di- 
rection of the commotion, and very quickly he 
came to the edge of a small clearing, and there 
he saw several Indians, one in the act of scalp- 
ing a white man whose body was laying pros- 
trate on the ground. 

As June raised the rifle which he had secured 
from the camp of his captors, another Indian 
fired, and he saw a half-grown boy throw up 
his hands and fall to the ground. Still other 
Indians were setting Are to the cabin which 
stood in the centre of the clearing, and at the 
same moment he saw a woman rush out at the 
back of the cabin and run toward the woods in 
the direction opposite to where he was stand- 
ing. 

Then he saw two savages start in pursuit of 
her. Ah, how she ran; but she was hindered 
in her flight by something which she carried in 
her arms; still, she had almost gained the 
woods, she had reached the fence which enclos- 
ed the cleared ground, and had placed one foot 
on one of its rails preparatory to vaulting over, 
when one of her pursuers overtook her and 
sank his tomahawk into her skull. But what 
was the intrepid and ever-ready June Stone 
doing all this time? He was not indifferent, 
by any means, to what was transpiring in 
sight ; indeed, he was maddened almost beyond 
control, and filled with rage that was bursting 
for action and for vengeance; but another 


150 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

thing had occurred which claimed his immedi- 
ate attention, for at this instant — while the 
woman with her baby clasped to her breast 
(and it was no less a thing that she carried) 
was endeavoring to escape — another woman 
came from within and rushed wildly in his di- 
rection. And in pursuit of this last one came 
a single Indian, with hideous war whoop 
sounding from his distended throat. 

The whole scene had burst upon June in a 
flash, and the enactment of it was carried up to 
this point in such an incredibly short space of 
time that it was hardly possible to take it all 
in, much less become an active participant. 

Rut he would do something now. 

He saw beyond the cabin and across the 
clearing, saw the tragedy enacted in full view, 
saw the infant which the mother still tightly 
clasped even until the shadow of death passed 
over her, saw it snatched from her arms by a 
second savage who now came up, saw its skull 
crushed against the fence — yes, and he saw 
more, he saw and understood the destruction 
that had been wrought, the home broken up, 
the ties broken, the lives ruthlessly and wan- 
tonly sacrificed to the thirst for blood. 

The man and boy were both dead, and the 
only survivor of this terrible massacre — the 
young woman — he saw come running nearer 
and nearer; he could hear the gasping for 
breath, could see the heaving of her breast, 
could note the struggle for freer respiration — 


In the footsteps of boone. 15 i 

and then he shot, shot to kill, shot with a 
greater desire to kill, with a greater exultation 
in the idea of being able to kill than he had ever 
before felt in his life. 

None of the other actors in the scene had 
been aware of his presence until that shot rang 
out across the clearing, and for an instant the 
savages did not realize that it was not from one 
of their friends-; and before they took in the 
situation fully June had taken the young 
women by the hand and was off with her into 
the depths of the forest. 

The Indians who had captured June had not 
thought it worth while to remove his belt and 
powder horn from his person, so that as he ran 
he had the wherewithal to recharge his rifle, 
and this he managed to do before they had pro- 
ceeded very far. 

The only words he had yet spoken to the 
woman whom he had rescued were, “Run, and 
keep straight on.’’ 

Soon — almost too soon — the pursuit of them 
began, and before they had gone a hundred 
yards a savage came in sight and fired. 

June now ran on some yards further alone, 
until he had rammed the ball into his rifle, and 
then jumping from tree to tree, still retreating 
and guarding the woman’s flight and keeping 
her in sight, he beckoned to her to stop. 

After the Indian had discharged his gun at 
them, he, too, had stopped, and then sought the 
shelter of a tree, and was now reloading his 
rifle. 


152 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

At this juncture June came up with the 
woman, and hastily said to her: 

“Run straight for about fifty yards and then 
turn to the left, cross the creek and wait for 
me.” 

She started to do as she was bidden, but 
none too soon, for just then another savage 
came into sight on the run, and June could hear 
others in the rear of this one, giving vent to 
their hellish yells as they came on. 

The first Indian had reloaded by this time 
and came after the second one, who had passed 
him. 

The two of them kept pretty well behind the 
trees until they were joined by their more tar- 
dy companions, and being somewhat embold- 
ened by the increase in numbers, they came on 
at a rush, exposing their persons in bolder man- 
ner. 

June now fired and the foremost of the pur- 
suers fell, when he turned and ran. 

The fate of their leader in the race checked 
the advance of the Indians for a moment, and 
June was enabled to widen the distance be- 
tween himself and his would-be captors very 
materially. Instead of turning off on the trail 
of the woman, he ran straight from his pur- 
suers for perhaps a hundred yards further, and 
then he turned in the direction of the creek. 

The savages could then be seen but indis- 
tinctly through the spaces between the trees 
and were just about to resume the chase. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 153 

And now Stone began to show that remarka- 
ble speed which had served him so well and so 
often in the past. He ran, nor stopped to look, 
scarcely to breathe, until he came in sight of 
the creek, and then he hastily glanced around 
to see if he was being closely pursued. He 
da ‘ not slacken his pace; but, O, if he can only 
reach the creek before his foes have seen the 
direction he takes, he thinks that he will be 
able to throw them off the track. 

He did not know how close they were upon 
him, and could not see them, and having gained 
the bank of the stream he paused to listen in- 
tenntly for a moment. Not hearing them, he 
jumped well into the water, thus leaving no 
track to show the direction he had taken. 

He then ran as best he could for some dis- 
tance in the water up the stream, and eventually 
came out on the bank opposite the one from 
which he entered, then continued to follow the 
stream along this bank for perhaps a hundred 
yards or more, when he again approached the 
water and jumped far into it; but still his 
sometime pursuers did not put in an appear- 
ance. 

Stone did not know, however, that he had 
been seen to change his direction in the woods, 
and that when his pusurers had come to the 
point where he turned off they had halted, and 
after talking the matter over, concluded to give 
up the chase, and that they then went back to 
look after the companion who had been shot. 


154 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONF. 

whom they found to be in a condition, after 
some bandaging, to travel; and that then they 
hastened to rejoin the main body of their 
friends, whom they knew to be traveling to- 
ward the Ohio. 

June was in the meantime, as we have said, 
proceeding as rapidly as possible, at the same 
time loading his rifle, and walking up the mid- 
dle of the stream, when a good-sized stick 
struck the water just in front of him. He look- 
ed up hastily and in much surprise, but his 
alarm was immediately dissipated, for there 
standing by a large tree a few feet back from 
the stream stood the woman he had rescued. 
Once more he looked back and stopped to 
listen, but seeing and hearing nothing of his 
enemies, he hastened up the bank and joined 
her. These two then, so strangely thrown to- 
gether, at a motion from June, walked rapidly 
away. 

They were very watchful and cautious for 
some time and only spoke in monosyllables; 
but when both had become convinced that there 
was no fear of immediate pursuit, June began 
to question the woman. He learned from her 
that it was her sister and her sister’s husband 
with whom she had been living since she was 
quite a child, and that it was their two children 
who had been killed with them. She told him 
further that she had no relatives living any- 
where now that she knew of; that her parents 
died some ten years before; that her brother- 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 1 55 

in-law, with his family, had come from the 
eastern part of Virginia to Kentucky about two 
years before, and that she had joined them 
during the last year. 

June then proposed that she should accom- 
pany him to Lexington, and that he would 
make some provision for her keeping after they 
had arrived there, and that if she was strong 
enough to keep moving they could reach there 
sometime during the night. The doubt as to 
her being able to make the journey without a 
considerable rest came to him as they talked 
and proceeded on their way, for he noticed that 
she looked rather frail for a frontier girl, and 
that the relaxation after the recent excitement 
and exertion had begun to tell upon her. 

He had not noticed her appearance partic- 
ularly at first, but now he saw that in spite of 
what she had been through she was fair to look 
upon. Her dress was of the coarse material in 
use at that time on the frontier ; her head was 
bare, and her long and abundant hair hung 
loose below her waist and curled itself into 
ringlets at the ends, while around her forehead 
it twisted into tight little i:urls, which in 
the shade showed a reddish-brown color, but 
in the sunshine shone like burnished gold. 

You see June was a very observant person, 
and not without appreciation of the beautiful. 

Her features were small and regular; and 
her nose and forehead, when seen in profile, 
silhouetted against the blue sky for back- 


156 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

ground, were presented in almost classic 
mould. In form she was slight but graceful, 
and the bloom of youth and health was upon 
her cheek; and as she moved along June 
thought of the fawns he had so often seen gam- 
boling in the shades of the mighty forest. 

He felt instinctively that she was a being 
more fitted for the soft luxuries of a more civ- 
ilized life; that she would be better suited to 
grace a circle where refinement and education 
might influence her surroundings than to be 
subjected to the rude and startling experiences 
of life on the outskirts of civilization; and he 
determined, inasmuch as fate had put her in 
his way, to do all in his power to place her 
where she might be brought as little as possi- 
ble in contact with the rougher and more sav- 
age aspects of the life surrounding them. 

She told June that she would rather that 
they pushed on as rapidly as they could, saying 
that she was stronger than she looked to be. 

June looked at her again, as if to make in- 
ventory of her stock of strength and endurance, 
and remarked : 

“You don t look very strong, but we will go 
as far as we can without stopping.’’ Then he 
asked, “Have you had anything to eat this 
morning ?” 

“Yes,” she answered; “my brother and 
nephew were out attending to the stock, after 
we had eaten breakfast, when the Indians sur- 
prised them away from the house and their 
guns.” 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 157 

And then she broke down and burst into 
tears, the first she had yet shed, and cried out, 
“Poor Suzanne!” 

This troubled June greatly, for like all other 
men, no matter what their condition, he could 
not altogether understand a woman’s tears. 
But soon she brushed them away from her eyes 
and said to him, “I am ready,” and they start- 
ed, for it was not thought safe to remain in the 
neighborhood where roving bands of Indians 
might come upon them at any moment. 

June felt very keenly the responsibility of 
having to care for this forlorn girl, and was al- 
together aware of the increased difficulties of 
■ their situation ; still he never hesitated as to the 
course to be taken. 

He thought deeply, as they proceeded, of the 
problem which confronted him, and he deter- 
mined that when they reached Lexington he 
would take her to a friend of his, a widow liv- 
ing with an unmarried son, and ask that she 
be taken in for a few days until matters could 
be talked over and some more permanent ar- 
rangement made. 

The Indians had burned the cabin on June’s 
farm when they were in the neighborhood of 
Bryant’s, or he might have taken her there ; but 
with the thought it occurred to him, that even 
if he had a house, it would not be just the thing 
to take her there, except in case of emergency 
and for only so long as the emergency lasted — 
he an unmarried man and she a young and 
pretty girl. 


158 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

Even in those rough times the more urgent 
of the proprieties must be observed; besides, 
he felt that she would demur to such arrange- 
ment. 

There was an unconscious dignity about her, 
which, besides his instinctive reverence for all 
womankind and the sorrowful helpless situa- 
tion she was in, appealed to his man- 
hood and to his better self, and com- 
pelled his respect as well as his pity ; and he felt 
that he must learn something more about her 
in order to know how the better to arrange 
things for her. Still, though he had been very 
well educated for those days and had been 
thrown frequently among refined people back 
in the East, he did not know just exactly how 
to put the question which he wished to ask her. 

He had noticed from the way in which she 
expressed herself, that she had had far more 
education than was to have been expected from 
the surroundings in which he had found her. 
So, for lack of a better beginning, he began by 
asking her name. 

“Lizzette,” she answered promptly; '‘Liz- 
zette Dupont, but I feel that we have become 
such tried friends, even in this short time, that 
you must call me Lizzette, simply Lizzette.” 

“All right, Lizzette,’' responded he, “my 
name is June Stone, and you can call me June; 
and tomorrow we will talk things over and find 
out more about each other.” 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 159 

They had traveled pretty steadily, though 
stopping quite frequently for short rests, until 
near the close of the day, when June knew that 
they were not far from their destination. The 
young woman had stood the trip remarkably 
well ; in fact, quite as well as June himself, for 
he had not eaten since the evening before. 

He had once or twice in the last half hour 
seen the smoke curling above the tree tops, and 
he knew that some settler with his family lived 
by the chimney from which the smoke ascend- 
ed; but being anxious on the girl’s account to 
reach Lexington as soon as possible, he had not 
stopped to ask for food. 

At last, very hungry and almost fagged out, 
they reached the blockhouse; and several dogs 
having announced their approach to the senti- 
nel, they were challenged, and June gave his 
name and was recognized, and they were allow- 
ed to proceed after a hasty explanation of the 
presence of the woman with him. 

When they had proceeded some fifty yards 
further, June knocked at the door of Mrs. 
Bailey’s cabin. The door was standing open, 
and the good woman came from within to the 
entrance, and as she did so she recognized 
June. 

“Why, June Stone, is that you,” she asked; 
“we thought the Indians had got you this time, 
sure.” 

“So they did,” andswered June, “but they 
didn’t keep me.” 


l6o IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

Then she said : 

^‘George Beatty an’ Jimmie Curry are out 
lookin’ fur you now; an’ Mr. Curry, he’s in 
the fort yander, an’ my John has gone ’long 
Cunl. Logan arter the varmints. But, my stars, 
who are you got thar, June? Ef tain’t a woman 
then I’ve lost my eyes. Tain’t a squaw, is she 
June, that you’ve took prisenor?” 

“No,” answered June, as soon as he could 
get a word in edgeways; “she is not a squaw, 
but she is a young white woman I helped to 
save from the Indians, and she’s mighty tired 
and hungry, and I want you to let her stay here 
all night with you. Now, come. Mother Bai- 
ley” — ev^erybody in the settlement called her 
Mother Bailey — “let us in and give us some- 
thing to eat, and, then I’ll tell you all about it.” 

“Come right in, both of you, an’ don’t stan’ 
there talkin’,” said Mother Bailey, and as they 
entered she put her arm around Lizzette’s 
waist and led her within. 

June had whispered to the widow as he pass- 
ed her: 

“Her sister and brother-in-law and the 
whole family, but she, were killed this morn- 
ing.” 

This was enough for Mother Bailey to hear, 
and this would have been enough to open the 
heart and arms of any other woman in Lexing- 
ton, or Bryant’s, or any of the settlements, to 
the unfortunate girl who now entered this 
humble home. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. l6l 

Mrs. Bailey had been made a widow when 
her husband had lost his life at the hands of the 
Indians two years before and she was especially 
drawn to anyone who had met with misfortune 
and had had sorrow brought to their hearts by 
the ruthless savages. 

There was not much love in her heart for the 
noble red man ; nor was there, in fact, much ad- 
miration among those people generally for his 
character. They knew of no precedent for the 
the character, replete with noble and generous 
deeds and instincts, which figured so conspicu- 
ously in the fiction of a later day. He seemed 
to lay aside his gentler moods and his pity 
whenever he entered The Dark and Bloody 
Ground, and his deeds of mercy and generos- 
ity were reserved for more favored localities. 
The experience of the '‘Long Knives,” as the 
Indians called the early settlers of Kentucky, 
was that his blade must be driven to the hilt 
before the tomahawk got a chance to do its 
deadly work. 

So Mother Bailey bestirred herself in order 
to place before her guests, first the refreshing 
draught of milk, and a little later on the tempt- 
ing pone of corn bread and the toothsome slice 
of cold meat. 

While these things were being prepared and 
eaten, June told Mother Bailey his story of the 
rescue. Lizzette listened, and answered such 
questions as were asked her, frequently burst- 
ing into tears as the remembrance of the recent 


i 62 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


horror was brought freshly to her, until finally 
Mother Bailey led her to bed and June took 
his leave. 

The next morning Lizzette began to make 
herself useful about the house, and the two 
women became rapidly better acquainted while 
working together — each learning already to re- 
spect the other. 

By questioning, Mother Bailey drew from 
Lizzette that her father came of a French Hu- 
guenot family, and had emigrated from North 
Carolina to eastern Virginia, where he had 
married her mother, who was an English 
woman ; that her father had died when she was 
about ten years old, and that in less than a year 
her mother had followed him, leaving an older 
sister and herself surviving them; that shortly 
afterwards her sister had married, and that she 
had lived with her sister and her family ever 
since, except during the year she remained in 
Virginia teaching school after her sister and 
her brother-in-law had moved to Kentucky; 
that the family were well off at one time and 
that she and her sister, especially she, had had 
many advantages of education, and had seen 
much of the refinementsof life, but that they had 
met with misfortune and had lost nearly all of 
their wealth, and that as she had no other rela- 
tives then living that she knew of and cared any- 
thing about, she had followed her sister into 
the wilderness, wishing to be with those she 
loved. She also told Mother Bailey of poor 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 163 

Francois, the nephew who was slain by the In- 
dians, and who was named after her father, of 
how bright and kind and lovable he was. 

“And, oh!” she exclaimed, “he and his 
father, not dreaming of any immediate danger, 
had gone out to their work, leaving their guns 
in the house, else the Indians would never have 
gotten to us, when the savages made a rush and 
killed both of them, at the same time attack- 
ing the house.” 

Then after a few moments pause, as if the 
whole terrible drama was being reenacted be- 
fore her mind’s eye, she broke forth with, 

“Oh, my God, the horror of it all ! And then 
we ran, my sister and myself; we would not 
have had time to reach the guns if we had 
thought to try to do so. And then the mad 
race, with the savage yells ringing in my ears, 
and the sound of pursuing footsteps coming 
ever nearer and nearer ; the despair, the cry for 
mercy and deliverance that went up to Heaven 
from my heart; and then — oh, I shall see it as 
long as I live ! And then — seeing nothing more, 
I felt my hand grasped in a strong clasp and I 
was borne away. Was it any wonder, I ask, 
that I thought that a miracle had been wrought, 
and that my prayer had been answered in some 
mysterious way?” 

After a moment she continued more calmly. 

“I had held my breath, expecting to feel the 
cruel edge of the tomahawk enter my brain. 


164 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

but shortly after I knew that my prayer had in- 
deed been answered. That good man who 
brought me here last night had saved me, 
and I do not know how I can ever be able to 
make him know the depth of my gratitude.” 

At a question from Mother Bailey, she an- 
swered, 

“No, I did not see my sister die, nor the dar- 
ling baby either; the little girl had been given 
to her out there in the mighty forest. No, I 
thank my God that He spared me that.” 

When she had shed a few bitter tears, she 
continued : 

“So you see, I am here without a relative on 
earth, with nothing except the clothes on my 
back — and what is to become of me, I do not 
know.” 

Mother Bailey was sobbing now as if her 
heart would break, and wiping her eyes with 
the corner of her apron, which usually served 
to cover her ample lap. The redness of her 
nose now put to shame the vivid hue of her fat 
cheeks. 

“Well, well, my dear,” she sobbed, “you 
shall stay with me as long as you want to, an’ 
I’ll be more’n glad to have you, too. June’ll be 
in afore long an’ I reckin we kin make it kind 
er com f table for you.” 


CHAPTER XVIIL 


During the morning June came to the widow 
Bailey’s cabin, according to promise, and as he 
entered he saw a picture which dwelt in his 
memory all the balance of his life. There stand- 
ing before him was Lizzette. She had made 
herself more presentable than on the previous 
day, and the rest which she had been able to 
take had refreshed her considerably. June 
thought that he had never seen a more win- 
some sight than this girl presented — this girl 
over whose head scarcely twenty summers’ 
suns had passed — as she paused in her work of 
sweeping the floor, resting her bare arms on the 
handle of the broom, and turned to greet him. 

He looked at her in silence for a moment, 
and then spoke — 

“Good morning, Lizzette; how do you feel 
after your night’s rest?” 

To which she answered : 

“I feel considerably refreshed; but how are 
you, my friend?” And she looked at him with 
a pair of deep blue eyes, which seemed to have 
taken their color from the midsummer sky, the 
tear drops slowly rising in them as she gave 
him her hand. 


l66 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


He did not release her hand immediately, 
but led her to a seat, saying, “Poor little girl,” 
and called Mrs. Bailey. 

The good woman came quickly from the 
kitchen, and the three friends sat down to talk 
over Lizzette’s future. 

June began the conversation by .saying in a 
tone of query : 

“You say, Lizzette, that you have no rela- 
tives or friends to whom you might go ?” 

“None,” answered she simply, but in saddest 
tone. 

“Then,” said June, addressing the widow, 
“Mother Bailey, we must find some place here 
for her to live.” 

“June Stone,” replied Mother Bailey, “you 
know she kin stay right here with me as long 
as she has a mind to ; an’ tain’t because you 
brought her, either, but because she is a good 
girl and I love her already, and because she kin 
be lots of help to me in my work, so you needn’t 
bother ’bout where she’s goin’ to find a home 
any more.” 

“What do you say, Lizette,” asked June, 
turning to the girl. 

“I should like to stay with Mother Bailey, if 
she will have me, at least as long as I can be of 
any use to her, or until I can find something to 
do to make my own living, and I will try so 
hard to help her all I can,” responded Lizzette. 

So it was decided, for the present at least, 
Lizzette should make her home with Mother 
Bailey. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 167 

Soon afterwards June took his leave, saying 
to Lizzette before he went : 

“Lizzette, I must go now and look after 
things on my farm a bit. You know that the 
red varmints burned my house, and I don’t 
know what other deviltry they may have done ; 
but I will come in a day or so and see how you 
are getting along.” 

“You must remember,” continued he, “that 
I am your friend, and I will do all I can to help 
you. I would ask you to go out to my place, 
but — ” and here he became evidently embar- 
rassed — “but I have no house now, and — and 
no women folks.” 

Lizzette answered ; 

“I understand, Mr. June — mayn’t I call you 
Mr. June — and I trust your judgment. I shall 
be very content here.” 

Stopping in the kitchen, he said to Mother 
Bailey, who had followed him : 

“Mother Bailey, I’m a rough man, but I feel 
very sorry for that little girl in there, and I 
want to help her and you must help me 
to do so. She don’t look like she could stand 
much roughing it, and you and me together 
must make her as comfortable as possible, and 
contented if we can. I’d give her a home at 
the farm if I could do it, but you know I can’t 
do that ; so you must keep her busy here with 
you, and I’ll do my part. I don’t think she’d 
stay anywhere long, unless she thought that she 
was makng herself useful.” 


l68 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

“All right, June; I understand, and I’ll work 
with you; but I don’t think that the little girl 
is going to be a burden to anybody.” 

Then he was gone, but stoped at the block- 
house to see how Uncle Enoch wa^ getting on. 
He found him about ready to start for his 
home with Jimmie, who had remained with his 
father, while George Beatty had hastened to 
Mollie and the babies. 

After finding Uncle Enoch so well, June and 
Jimmie together went out to June’s place. 
They found that the cabin, with everything in 
it, had been burned, and that the stock had 
been driven off or slaughtered, but that his crop 
of corn was still standing, save here and there 
where it had been trampled down. 

The horse which Jimmie had ridden to Lex- 
ington on the morning of the attack on 
Bryant’s, and a few head of hogs running at 
large in the forest, were about all that was left 
to him of this world’s goods, and with these 
and his crop and his good rifle he must start in 
the world again. 

It was decided that Jimmie Curry should go 
to tiarrodsburg with his father, and return in 
a few days and help June rebuild, which he 
would begin to do immediately. 

But first, the timber must be prepared, and as 
this would take some time, June was in Lex- 
ington almost every night, and quite frequently 
at Mother Bailey’s cabin, where, of course, he 
saw Lizzette. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 169 

She, though very sad and sorrowful, was 
making the best of things, and was endearing 
herself more and more to the good woman of 
the house. The days and the weeks went on in 
their appointed course, and John Bailey and 
the rest had returned from the expedition 
against the Indians, which did not extend be- 
yond the Ohio. 

June Stone was a young man yet, and full of 
energy, so that with the help of Jimmie and the 
neighbors by the time the first snow fell June’s 
new house was finished, his corn crib built, and 
it was time to gather in the crop. 

It was well on toward the middle of Novem- 
ber, and Lizzette had been with Mother Bailey 
nearly two months and a half, when June be- 
thought himself to invite his neighbors to a 
corn husking, to which they came to the num- 
ber of two score or more. 

Aunt Marthy Curry and Uncle Enoch, and 
Mollie and George Beatty were there. Mother 
Bailey and John and Lizzette came out from 
town for the occasion, and several more of 
the boys and girls from Lexington and 
Bryant’s, among them Maggie Mitchell and 
Aaron Reynolds. The moon was shining 
brightly in the heavens when they all arrived, 
the air was crisp and bracing, and within the 
house the women were busily engaged in pre- 
paring the repast to be partaken of after the 
husking was over. 


170 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

Without, the corn was heaped up into a long 
pile, and a large fire was burning to one side; 
and as the men came up, a bottle containing 
something \vith which to warm up and stimu- 
late the inner man was handed to each, and 
each took a liberal draught of the contents. 
When all was ready, Jimmie Curry and John 
Bailey were chosen as captains to pick their 
men from those present to take part in . a con- 
test in husking the corn. 

After all had been chosen on the one side or 
the other, the captains placed a rail across the 
pile of corn, dividing it equally; then the men 
mounted the pile, sitting back to back, and be- 
gan husking, at the same time singing, and 
pretty soon the night air rang with the chorus. 

Soon the pile of ears began to sink in the 
middle, and one of Jimmie’s men gave his body 
a shove in such a manner as to make many of 
the ears on his side of the rail slide down on to 
the side of the pile which fell to the share of 
his opponents, thus diminishing the heap on his 
side and increasing the size of it on the other. 

Some one of the opposite party cried out, 

“Bill Smith, you are cheating!” 

“It’s a lie!” retorted Smith. 

In a moment the two men were on their feet 
and a fight began, which was only stopped by 
the intervention of the two captains and others, 
who insisted that the husking should go on. 

In a short time the work was resumed, the 
bottle again passed around, and the men were 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 17I 

singing once more with as much heartiness as 
ever. Finally there was only a small number 
of ears left unshucked, for the contest had been 
close and exciting. It was wonderful to watch 
the rapidity with which the shucks flew and 
the clean white ears rolled out. 

There was now room for only two or three 
on either side to actively participate in the con- 
test; the two little heaps on either side of the 
rail were about equal in size; the two captains 
were in the midst of the hurry and excitement, 
handling the corn with nimble, but strong 
hands, and the partisans of each side were en- 
couraging and urging on each party to renewed 
exertion, while the women looked on eagerly, 
interested spectators. 

Smaller and smaller grew the heaps of corn, 
more and more exciting grew the contest, and 
more vociferous and urgent became the specta- 
tors. 

It now seemed that either side might be 
victorious. The minutes dwindled to seconds, 
and only a few more ears were left 
Jimmie and John were sweating like horses, 
and working still with all the energy they pos- 
sessed, and very rapidly. 

Ah, but now jimmie stands erect, and tos- 
sing a clear ear on the heap of shucked corn on 
his side of the rail, cries out, 

“Victory, the last ear!’’ 

And John Beatty stops to look up with a 
half-dozen unshucked ears on the ground be- 
tween his feet. 


172 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

Then the men make a rush for Jimmie, and 
hoist him on their shoulders and carry him 
around the pile of corn, shouting to the de- 
feated contestants, “Go and learn how to shuck 
corn!” or, “Don’t stop to look at the girls so 
much next time!” and many other such flings. 

Bill Smith’s late antagonist now yelled out, 

“We’d er beat you any how ef that Bill 
Smith had er played fair ; and, by gum, we kin 
whollop you fellers all the same !” 

With this he seized a burning brand from 
the fire and hurled it at Smith. Immediately 
his example was followed by others on both 
sides, until all present had armed themselves in 
like manner and the fight became general. 

Before the thing had proceeded far, however, 
June Stone stepped between the opposing lines, 
which had quickly drawn up facing each other, 
and cried out, 

“Stop a moment. I propose that as it is tol- 
erably dark now, we make a rule to use only 
lighted brands, so that nobody can get hit with- 
out first seeing the weapon that hits him.” 

Everybody readily agreed to this, and so 
they fought; at first in play, but gradually the 
fight became more earnest, and would have 
ended in a good many broken heads if, at a 
quiet suggestion from June, the women had 
not cried out that the edibles were ready. Then 
the captains called the men off, and the whole 
party went into the cabin, where their zeal 
soon began to display itself in the rapidity and 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOOI^E. 1 73 

energy with which they attacked and demolish- 
ed the food. 

Of course Jimmie Curry had met Lizzette, 
and so had Aunt Marthy, and both had been 
made acquainted with her story; and Aunt 
Marthy and Mother Bailey planned together 
what they were going to do for the girl. In 
fact, Aunt Marthy had insisted on taking Liz- 
zette back to Harrodsburg with her for a visit 
to herself and Mollie Beatty. Mother Bailey 
demurred considerably to any such arrange- 
ment for a time, but finally consented with the 
understanding that the visit was not to last 
longer than a week or so, saying : 

“It will do the child good, I reckon; an’ I 
musn’t Stan’ in her way.” 

Nevertheless, she said to June, in an aside, 
during the evening: 

“June Stone, you needn’t think that you an’ 
them Curries are goin’ to wean Lizzette away 
from me by sendin’ her off with them, just as 
we were gettin’ along so comfortable together. 
No, sir; I ain’t goin’ to have it!” 

“Now look here Mother,” he answered, “I 
ain’t sending her off ; I think she would like to 
go, and don’t you think that it would do her 
good?” And he continued, persuasively: “It 
won’t be for long, and she will come back to 
you just the same as ever as far as her feelings 
for you are concerjied, and it will be like old 
friends meeting, you’ll be so glad to see each 
other again. She ain’t going to forget you nor 


1 74 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

what you have done for her, you can depend on 
that,” and so it was settled, and the old lady 
said no more. 

Lizzette really had a very sweet and lovable 
disposition and was truly grateful for all the 
marks of kindness shown her, and still she had 
that kind of pride which made her determine 
not to be a burden on anybody. She did not 
wish to pose as an object of charity, and she 
would work for her living, just like those 
around her. She made friends readily and 
had the faculty of keeping them. Mother Bai- 
ley had grown to be very fond of her during 
the weeks they had been together, and all the 
young men in the town were already in love 
with her, John Bailey was her devoted slave. 
Jimmie Curry, too, had begun to look on her 
in a brotherly way, and had constituted him- 
self her especial guardian and champion, 
somewhat to the chagrin of pretty Maggie 
Mitchell. 

Individual character, barring the ruder man- 
ners of life and peculiar surroundings, was 
pretty much then as it is today; subject to the 
same influences, and the mind and heart were 
ruled by the same passions, and action was dic- 
tated by the same natural laws that they are 
now. 

Maggie, in her homespun dress, beautiful 
nevertheless, with the thick braids of raven 
locks coiled around her shapely head, with the 
flash of her lustrous black eye, was exceeding- 
ly comely to look upon — at least so thought the 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 175 

masculine portion of the community in which 
she lived ; and before Lizzette came her sover- 
eignty of beauty had been undisputed. Not so 
gentle in disposition was she as Lizzette, but 
possessing traits of character much to be ad- 
mired, and more than one man paused that 
night before dipping his spoon or fork into the 
stew to gaze in undisguised admiration at the 
two girls as they moved side by side among 
them or ministered to their wants. 

Both were brave and generous. Maggie bet- 
ter able physically, perhaps, to stand the hard- 
ships of frontier life, but with no greater deter- 
mination of character or spirit of endurance. 

Perhaps the difference could better be ex- 
pressed in this way — Maggie would brave any 
danger for those she loved; she would be, and 
had already shown herself, capable of brilliant 
and heroic action on occasion, while Lizzette 
would suffer and endure any and all hardships 
patiently to the end for a principle — and for 
love’s sake. 

After all had satisfied their appetites, the 
older men gathered in groups and began to dis- 
cuss the various topics of interest to them, and 
to tell stories of adventure, and some of the 
young men paired off with the young women, 
or began to tease those of the girls who seemed 
inclined to remain together apart from the 
men; while the older women made arrange- 
ments for quilting bees, and talked over the 
various household and domestic economies. 


17^ IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

June had built a larger cabin than the former 
one, with two large rooms below, connected 
by a covered but unsided flooring, and had 
constructed a large room above running the 
full width of the house; large enough, in fact, 
by partitioning it off, to serve as two or three 
rooms, so that the house could readily accom- 
modate several of his guests during the night. 

Of course Aunt Marthy and Mollie would 
remain, and it was decided that Mother Bailey 
and Lizzette would rest there also. 

All the Bryant’s Station people had gone ex- 
cept Maggie, and Jimmie was to see her home, 
she riding behind him on June’s horse. So 
these two were the last to take their leave. Mr. 
Mitchell, Maggie’s father, having gone on just 
ahead of them. 

When Jimmie was mounted, June came for- 
ward to assist Maggie up to her place behind 
Jimmie; but with a toss of her head and a 
saucy laugh, she grasped Jimmie’s outstretched 
hand and vaulted up behind him, and they rode 
off, leaving June standing alone and laughing 
to himself, shaking his head in a deprecatory 
way. When they had gone a few yards, Mag- 
gie, still laughing at June’s discomfiture, turn- 
ed and threw a kiss to him, saying, ‘‘Thank 
you so much for helping me to mount; good- 
night.” 

As June walked into the cabin, he said to 
himself, “She’s a saucy little minx, but a fine 
girl for all that.” 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 1 77 

Jimmie and Maggie rode on in silence for 
awhile, each busy with their own thoughts, 
but presently Maggie asked : 

“How do you like Lizette? She’s a pretty 
girl, ain’t she?” 

Now Jimmie did not relish the question very 
much, for he really did not know just how he 
did like Lizette. He had thought that it was 
only in a friendly way, possibly, until Maggie 
had put the question to him suddenly; but it 
set him to thinking very rapidly, and his con- 
science immediately began to worry him some- 
what as to what his real feelings were for her, 
so he answered somewhat evasively : 

“Yes, she is pretty and everybody seems to 
like her. Mother fell in love with her at first 
sight.” 

“That is not what I asked you, Jimmie Cur- 
ry,” said Maggie; “what I want to find out is, 
how Mr. Curry hkes her?” 

To which he replied : 

“Why, Maggie, I like her, too.” 

“Well,” retorted she, “I thought you did, 
and they say an honest confession is good for 
the soul.” Continuing in a teasing manner, 
she said : “You took her over to Mrs. Smith’s 
quilting party last' week, didn’t you, Jimmie? 
and you have been seen hovering around Moth- 
er Bailey’s a good deal lately. How do you 
think June Stone and John Bailey will like 
that? Ah, Jimmie, I am afraid it ain’t going to 
be all plain sailing for you.” 


178 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

Jimmie really loved Maggie, and they had 
been sweethearts for some time, while he was 
not at all sure that he cared for Lizzette in 
more than a friendly way, so being fearful that 
he had offended Maggie he hasten to reply. 

^^Now look here, Maggie Mitchell, you know 
that I love you, and that if you’ll have me, I am 
going to marry you just as sOon as I can get a 
piece of land cleared and a house built on it.” 

Maggie did not seem to be quite satisfied 
yet, so she replied : 

“Yes, but it don’t seem much like getting 
your cabin built, nor your land cleared either, 
hanging around June’s place, and Lexington, 
and Bryant’s all the time. I’ve understood you 
to say that your land was over near Harrods- 
burg; but I guess now Lizzette is going home 
with your mother, it won’t be long before you 
will be at work on your clearing.” 

Jimmie met this sally with : 

“You know, Maggie, that it is you who have 
been keeping me around here so much, and that 
I have been helping June. Now don’t be un- 
reasonable, and I’ll tell you that father has 
given me a hundred acres, and I have already 
commenced to clear it. Lizzette is a very nice 
girl, Maggie, but I don’t love her like I do 
you.” 

Jimmie would have emphasized his assertion 
then and there with a kiss, but as she would not 
put her mouth over his shoulder when he 
turned his head, he could not really do so, the 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 1 79 

position in which he was situated being taken 
into consideration. When they reached Mag- 
gie’s home, however, and she glided down from 
the back of the horse, he detained her a 
moment as soon as her feet had touched the 
ground by placing his arm around her neck, 
and this time their lips met without difficulty. 

After he had released her, she ran toward 
the house, and stopped on the threshold of the 
door to throw him a kiss and to call, “Good- 
night, sweetheart!” 

Jimmie rode back in the night, his heart beat- 
ing very rapidly, yet very tenderly, beneath his 
buckskin shirt. His last thought before going 
to sleep was of Maggie, but it was coupled, 
nevertheless, with one of Lizzette. 

The next day Lizzette was going back with 
Uncle Enoch and Aunt Marthy, and he must 
needs go with them and get to his work. 

John Bailey was out at June’s place bright 
and early to take his mother home and to bid 
the folks farewell ; and when he held Lizzette’ s 
little hand in his great rough fingers to Sr y 
good-by, the big fellow’s voice was ludicrously 
pathetic while saying: 

“We’ll miss you, Lizzette; don’t stay long.” 

“Good-by, Mr. John,” said Lizzette, and she 
thought that he must have a kind heart, for 
she saw that tears glistened in his eyes. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


There was a lull in the Indian hostilities dur- 
ing the rest of the year, and it was not until far 
into the year 1784 that they again began to be 
troublesome. Peace had been declared, before 
these troubles began, between the Mother 
Country and the Colonies, and the birth of a 
new nation had brought gladness to the West- 
ern world. 

Lizzette went with the Currys to Harrods- 
burg, and as she entered the little town before 
dark on the day of her departure from June’s 
place, she was much pleased with its appear- 
ance. 

The settlement had grown considerably, 
many families had been added to the popula- 
tion since we visited it in company with June, 
and it had more the appearance of the older 
places which Lizette had been accustomed to 
m the East than anything she had seen in Ken- 
tucky. 

In fact, during this and the ensuing year 
there was a great increase in population all 
over Kentucky, and the next spring a store of 
general merchandise was opened in Lexing- 
ton. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. l8l 

The weeks of Lizzette’s visit to Harrods- 
burg sped quickly by, and Mother Bailey was 
becoming impatient for her return. John had 
asked more than once when she was coming 
back. The time seemed very long, indeed, to 
the poor fellow, and he knew how it was with 
him. He was hopelessly in love, and did not 
try to conceal the fact from himself. 

And June, what was he doing and thinking 
during this time? He was living alone on his 
farm, working and hunting; and dreaming, 
too, perhaps. 

Let us follow him into his cabin, after a 
day’s hunt about this time, and see if we can 
learn anything of his thoughts from his actions 
and his words; for, like most people who live 
a great deal alone, he had acquired the habit of 
talking aloud to himself, or to the inanimate 
objects which surrounded him, as well as to 
his dog and other animals. 

In one end of the room was built a large 
fire-place, and in this fire-place on this partic- 
ular evening he had started a fire and heaped 
the logs high upon the flames, for it was cold 
without and he did not feel like sleeping. 
Here in front of the fire he sat, with his feet 
stretched out in front of him in order to feel 
the heat as the flame brightened up and lighted 
the room and filled it with the shadows of the 
scanty furniture. 

His dog lay on the floor beside him, with his 
head between his paws, asleep a great part of 


i 82 


IN THE F'OOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


the time, but glancing up ever and anon 
with wistful eyes into his master’s face, as if 
studying his mood. 

June’s pipe was held between his teeth, and 
the spiral curls of the tobacco smoke ascended 
for some time at regular intervals until they 
were lost in the darkness above. On a stand 
within easy reach of his hand sat an empty cup, 
and on a shelf in the corner sat the bottle from 
which it had been filled. Before a great while 
the fire began to die down and the embers made 
a hot bed of coals on the hearth. June removed 
the pipe from his mouth and began to speak. 

He considered himself an old man now, 
though he was scarcely thirty, and he was 
looked on somewhat in that light by his com- 
panions and neighbors. He had had many hard 
experiences and had lived rather a rough life at 
all times, but espvecially so in the last few years. 
Not many of the men by whom he was now 
surrounded had met with more adventures tlian 
he had, or had undergone greater hardships; 
and thus it was, on account of these ex[>eriences 
and on account of the length of time he had 
been a frontiersman, he looked older than he 
really was, and men had confidence in his judg- 
ment and looked to him for council and advice 
in many matters which were usually referred 
to the older heads among them. He was very 
quiet and sedate in his manner on ordinary oc- 
casions, and very cool and courageous in 
moments of danger, though quick of action. 


IN THE EOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 183 

V and these things had strengthened a belief in 
his more matured judgment, and consequently 
he was classed among the older men. As we 
have intimated, he had accepted the verdict 
that he was growing old. 

He was a man of naturally refined tastes and 
instincts; and, as we have seen, possessed far 
more education than most of his compatriots, 
but the manner of life which he had been liv- 
ing for so long now showed its influence on 
him, and he had become more or less uncouth 
in speech and manner. 

He had found that in talking with Lizzette 
he used words and drifted into trains of 
thought that would hardly have been under- 
stood by many of the men and women with 
whom he was thrown into almost daily contact. 

He bent over and patted his dumb compan- 
ion on the head, and as he did so his somewhat 
lengthy and curly brown locks fell forward and 
brushed his forehead. 

“Old fellow,” he said to the dog, “it’s pretty 
cold out doors tonight and I’m going to let you 
sleep in here; how do you think that will suit 
you ?” 

The dog raised his head and licked his mas- 
ter’s hand, and then let his head again fall con- 
tentedly between his paws, as if he thoroughly 
understood what was said to him and was satis- 
fied with the arrangement. 

June now threw a log on to the embers, and 
then settled himself for a reverie. Presently 


184 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

he addressed himself, or the dog — which was 
it — in the following manner : 

“Yes, I’m getting old; these rheumatic pains 
in my legs make me aware of that fact — Ah, I 
begin to feel that it would be nice to have a 
little woman to come to when the day is over. 
What do you think of that, old boy?” He was 
addressing the dog directly now. 

Then he continued : 

“The idea of an old hunter like me feeling 
lonesome. I ought to be ashamed of myself, 
but I ain’t.” 

This last was meant more particularly for 
himself. 

June had noticed how the young men were 
drawn to Lizzette, unconsciously on her part, 
it seemed ; involuntarily on their part, but irre- 
sistably, nevertheless. 

He had seen how gentle she was, how pretty 
and how lovable; and with the feeling of how 
lonely he was this night came also thoughts of 
her. 

She had begun to recover somewhat lately 
from the effects of the horrible experience 
through which she had gone, and the happy 
smile and the sweet little laugh, which had been 
wont to make up a part of her charm, returned 
to her, and rang out quite frequently in the 
cabin of Mother Bailey as he passed by or 
stopped to chat. 

But another thing he thought he had noticed 
and that was that every time he came into her 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 185 

presence a saddened expression shone in her 
countenance; fleeting it always was, his true, 
and the large, pathetic eyes would look into 
his with sorrow. It appeared that the sight of 
him always brought back to her mind the last 
scene enacted at her old home on the day he 
rescued her, and it troubled him greatly, and he 
heaved a great sigh and spoke to himself again. 

“Ah, she’s not for such as me; she is too 
young and beautiful and good. I make her sad, 
and I am too old to even think of her, any- 
how.” 

Then he rose to cover the coals with ashes 
for the night, and as he did so the most beauti- 
ful dream of his life faded from his mental 
vision and seemed to be lost in the darkness of 
the room. 

He now removed his clothing and lay down 
upon his bed, and covering up his head as if to 
shut out any further sight of the picture his 
imagination had been painting there in the rude 
log cabin, while the snow lay silently without 
and the moaning wind sought out every means 
of ingress to his place of abode. 

But he could not even yet lose sight of the 
lovely vision, of the graceful form sitting on 
one side of his fire-place, with the glint of the 
fire-light touching into gold the folds of her 
yellow hair — and it was Lizzette; yes, it was 
always Lizzette. 

At last he fell a;sleep and saw again the 
hunted, sorrowful, appealing look in her eyes. 


l86 IN the footsteps of BOONE. 

and felt that he must clasp her in his strong 
arms and draw her to him and keep her there 
and protect her for evermore. 

The next morning, if he had had a looking 
glass and some vanity, he might have seen the 
face and form of a man, the owner of which 
should never despair of winning the sincerest 
love and regard of any — or even the loveliest 
and gentlest woman he had ever known. 

Jimmie Curry worked pretty steadily clear- 
ing his land for a week after his return home, 
and then there was a spell of weather which 
prevented any outdoor work except such as was 
absolutely necessary; so that for some days he 
was compelled to remain in the house and pass 
the time as best he might. Thus it happened 
that he was much in Lizzette’s company, and 
they were alone most of the time. 

At first their conversation was quite free 
and unrestrained. Lizzette told him a good 
deal of her life before coming to Kentucky. He 
was charmed with her conversation, and before 
many days he began to feel restless and un- 
happy when not with her, and uncomfortable, 
but happy, when in her company; for he could 
not disguise it from himself that whenever he 
thought of Maggie a very restless and rather 
guilty feeling was very perceptible. 

He knew that he ought to go over and see 
Maggie, as it was well understood between 
them that his marked attentions to her should 
end in marriage ; in fact, he was supposed to be 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 187 

hastening his work toward its completion, even 
now, with that end in view. But he put off 
going from day to day, making first one excuse 
and then another, to himself, until it began to 
dawn on him that it might be rather embar- 
rassing for him to go at all. Then, too, he felt 
that he had begun to care for Lizzette, and it 
made him uncomfortable and rather ashamed 
of himself, for he was at heart an honorable 
lad, and he knew that Maggie was of a very 
high strung nature and would brook no trif- 
ling; still he felt that he was being borne by 
force of circumstances past the danger line, and 
he hardly felt able to resist the current. 

He had not betrayed his feelings by word to 
Lizzette, and in fact he did not know that Liz- 
zette had even thought of him in the attitude 
of a lover. It did seem rather that she was 
blissfully ignorant of the trouble she was caus- 
ing for him. 

Jimmie wanted to do the right thing, but as 
time went on he found that his heart was so 
seriously involved that he must do either one or 
two things — he must either go to June’s with- 
out delay, which meant that he would go to 
Maggie and give up all thought of Lizzette, or 
m.ust make up his mind to break with Maggie, 
to tell Lizzette of his feelings for her, and to 
take the consequences. 

He loved Maggie, he thought, still. There 
was no doubt that he loved her and her alone 
until Lizzette had come to them. Now he 


i88 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


doubted himself, and this state did not add to 
his mental comfort. A terrible struggle was 
going on within him. What would the out- 
come of it be ? 

He was certainly drifting into dangerous 
waters, and seemed to be unable to battle suc- 
cessfully against them. As a matter of fact, 
Lizzette was profoundly ignorant of these in- 
ward struggles and of the profound impression 
she had made on his heart. Up to this time she 
had not looked very far into the future to see 
what might be in store for her; certainly she 
had not looked on any man with thoughts of 
love. Some day, perhaps, she would wake to 
the consciousness that she had found her mate, 
and then she would be capable of a great love 
and devotion; but not yet had her heart been 
knowingly touched. 

It was just a day or so before Lizzette’s visit 
was to come to an end that Aunt Marthy pro- 
posed that Lizzette and Jimmie should go out 
to Mollie’s and spend the day, and as it happen- 
ed to be bright and not very cold, the young 
people readily agreed to the proposition. It was 
decided that they should walk, the distance not 
being very great, and both were feeling the 
need of exercise. 

They were very happy as they proceeded and 
laughed and prattled like two school children 
let loose and talked and laughed and joked as 
they skipped along over the snow. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 1 89 

Jimmie seemed to have regained all of his 
old-time cheerfulness, and to have forgotten 
the matters which had been troubling him so 
much lately. As for Lizzette, she was happy in 
the mere fact of healthy exercise and existence. 

The two passed swiftly on for a time, slid- 
ing on the snow, throwing it in each other’s 
faces, and filling the air with their joyous 
mirth ; exerting themselves until the blood 
painted their cheeks the color of ripe pippins. 

There was a small stream which they must 
cross on the route, and it was frozen now with 
ice thick enough to bear them up. It was not 
far from George Beatty’s cabin, and as they ap- 
proached, Jimmie became suddenly very quiet 
and thoughtful. Lizzette asked him why this 
was so, and he replied : 

^‘You’re going home tomorrow or the next 
day, and we’ll miss you so much. Yes, Liz- 
zette, and I’ll miss you more than all the rest. 
You don’t know how I shall miss you — and 
how lonely I’ll be.” 

The tone of his voice struck her as being 
somewhat exaggerated, and there was some- 
thing strange in it, something she had never 
heard in it before ; but turning to him she said : 

“It is very kind in you to say such things, 
but I guess you will survive the separation, and 
then you will be over quite often to see June 
and Maggie.” 

As she was saying this, and looking back, 
she stepped on the ice and slipped, and would 


190 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

have fallen; but Jimmie was at her side in a 
flash and had caught her around the waist — 
and— ah, it was only for a moment— he strained 
her to him, and looking into her eyes with his 
face close to hers, he whispered rather than 
spoke, “I love you,” and kissed her. 

She understood now, though startled and 
surprised, and cried out, more in sorrow than 
in anger, and in a tone of genuine regret : 

“Mr. Jimmie, why did you do that, you hurt 
me so!” 

And he, thinking that she was in physical 
pain from the pressure of his arm, released his 
hold upon her. 

She then started to move off toward the 
cabin, with bent head and with tearful eyes, 
and without another word. 

“Lizzette!” cried he, following her, “have I 
made you angry?” 

“No,” replied she, “but Fm sorry this has 
happened. I have stayed too long in Harrods- 
burg.” ■ 

As she walked on she continued : 

“What will your mother think of me — what 
will poor Maggie think?” 

Jimmie was young and a very child of 
nature, and he already regretted that he had 
spoken the hasty words. Not that he did not 
believe that he really loved Lizzette, but he 
could not understand the way in which she was 
taking the matter, and he felt that he was still 
bound to Maggie, at least until she had re- 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. I9I 

leased him in so many words; he knew, too, 
that Lizzette was aware of the relations which 
existed between Maggie and he. Lizzette’s 
words, “What will poor Maggie think?” had 
brought instantly and very vividly to his mind 
a full realization of what his words and action 
must mean. His position was ten times more 
difficult than it was before he had spoken. 

Maggie would believe him to be a scoundrel 
and Lizzette would think that he was either 
trifling with her or that the love that he had 
declared was not worth much if it could be 
changed from one object to another so soon 
and so readily. 

He was beginning already to feel very mis- 
erable, and was ready to commit almost any 
folly in his desperation. Lizzette marked his 
dejection as they walked on, now side by side, 
and she said to him : 

“Forget what you have said and done, and I 
will forget, too.” 

Just before she entered the house she said : 

“I intend to be very good friends with Mag- 
gie, for your sake, Mr. Jimmie; but you must 
leave me now, and come and take me home to- 
morrow. I will stay all night with Mollie, but 
must go home then.” Jimmie left very soon 
after he had greeted George and Mollie and the 
babies, saying by way of excuse for leaving so 
soon that he was going hunting that afternoon, 
but would be out again in the morning to take 
Lizzette to Lexington. 


CHAPTER XX. 


The next morning Jimmie came out to break- 
fast, after which George led a horse around to 
the block in front of the house for Lizzette to 
ride, and soon Jimmie came up ready mounted 
for the journey. 

In the meantime Mollie and Lizzette had 
bidden each other farewell, and Mollie had ob- 
tained a promise of another and a longer visit 
at some future time, and then little June came 
running out to where Lizzette stood ready to 
mount and threw his arms around her and 
kissed her, for he, like all the other boys, large 
and small, seemed to have lost his heart to her. 
Then they were off. 

Jimmie w’as very quiet, and what little con- 
versation was had was carried on in monosylla- 
bles. Each of the two felt more or less em- 
barrassed, and a certain restraint made itself 
manifest. Jimmie had, nevertheless, recog- 
nized that in asking him to take her home she 
had intended to show her confidence in him, 
and that their old relations should be resumed 
as far as possible, but he could not yet feel 
quite at his ease. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


193 


With woman’s tact, she had seen that this 
request would show him that she still wished 
to regard him as a friend and that it would in 
a manner put him on his honor not to renew his 
declaration of love, at least for the time being. 

Though only a few months older than Jim- 
mie, she regarded herself as vastly his senior, 
and viewed his outburst of passionate avowal 
2s only the expression of a youthful and pas- 
sing fancy. 

Perhaps she was right, but Jimmie was in- 
clined to resent the implied prohibition which 
had thus been put on the introduction of the 
subject, and it made him somewhat sulky. She 
did not love him, that was certain, for she had 
been taken completely by surprise when he had 
spoken, while holding her in his arms ; but she 
was determined, if possible, to keep his friend- 
ship, while at the same time she made him 
thoroughly understand that there could be no 
question of marriage between them. And be- 
sides, she was really very fond of Maggie, and 
admired her sincerely, and she believed that at 
heart Jimmie truly loved Maggie; and wise lit- 
tle woman that she was, she determined to treat 
the whole affair as if it had never occurred and 
to seek to restore Jimmie’s confidence and be- 
lief in himself. 

‘‘Jimmie,” she said, after they had been on 
the road for an hour or more perhaps, and had 
left the Kentucky River some distance in their 
rear, “promise me that you will go and see 


194 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


Maggie before you go back. I know that you 
really love her and that she loves you truly, 
and she will think it very strange if you do not 
go. I like both of you too much to wish to see 
either of you made unhappy.” 

Before he left her he promised that he would 
go to Maggie. 

Mother Bailey received Lizzette with open 
arms, and John was there to greet her also; 
and then Jimmie rode off, leading the horse on 
which Lizzette had ridden. 

He slept that night at June Stone’s place; 
but before doing so he went to Bryant’s Station 
to redeem his promise to Lizzette. 

When Maggie opened the door to him she 
started back on seeing who it was, at the 
same time turning pale to the lips for a moment 
and then the blood rushed back in a torrent to 
her head and crimsoned her throat and face. 

‘‘Why, how do you do, Mr. Curry !” she ex- 
claimed. We thought that you had forgotten 
the way to Bryant’s. My father was saying 
only today, that he had stopped in at Mother 
Bailey’s to see John on some business and that 
the good woman was fussing about Lizette’s 
staying away so long. Now that you have 
stumbled on the Station, won’t you come in?” 

As they passed the threshold she said : 

^‘I wonder how you could tear yourself away 
from home when you had such a pretty girl as 
Lizzette in the house,” 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


Jimmie walked in with rather a troubled air, 
for he was in great perplexity. He had not 
more than half accepted the situation in which 
Lizzette had placed him, though as he looked 
at Maggie and felt the influence of her pres- 
ence, much of his old feeling of love for her 
came back to him. No, the old love was not 
gone ; it had slipped from his grasp, as it were, 
temporarily, under great temptation and sud- 
den impulse — but was not dead. 

When they were inside, Maggie again ad- 
dressed him : 

“And how did you leave Miss Dupont? It 
is indeed a great compliment, that you should 
have taken the time and trouble to come to us 
under the circumstances.” 

She had drawn herself up to her full height 
now, and as she stood thus before him her 
beauty was magnificent. 

“I brought Lizzette home today,” at length 
replied Jimmie, “and as I must go back tomor- 
row, this is the only opportunity I could have 
to see you.” 

“Well, it is kind of you to call,” responded 
she simply. 

Jimmie was nettled and somewhat chagrined 
at the reception he was having; and still, deep 
down in his heart, he knew, if she did not, that 
it was not more than he deserved. He felt that 
if she knew all she would be justified in shut- 
ting the door in his face. He would have liked 
in all sincerity to have made his peace with 


196 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

Maggie and to have accepted the conclusion of 
the affair with Lizzette which she had made 
plain was her wish ; but he did not know how to 
satisfactorily explain his long absence, and he 
did not care to make a full confession, so he re- 
mained silent. 

Neither spoke for some time after this, and 
both seemed to be trying to unravel some per- 
plexing tangle of thought in their minds. Fi- 
nally Maggie resumed : 

“Jinime Curry, it has been nearly a month 
since you came near me, and it has seemed to 
me that if you cared as much for me as you 
gave me to understand when we last met, you 
would have been to see me before this.” 

“But,” she continued, “there is one thing I 
want you to understand, Jimmie Curry, and 
that is this — if you care for some one else more 
than you do for me, I want to know it, and I 
think that you owe it to me to let me know it ; 
and if your staying away means this, why all 
I have got to say about it is, that you need not 
trouble yourself about coming to see me again.” 

Here she paused for a moment, and then 
went on : 

“I am the last person in the world to wish to 
force myself on anybody, or to hold any one 
to an agreement which has become distasteful 
to that person; neither would I try to under- 
mine any girl who you professed to care for — 
no matter what other people might do.” 

“Now look here, Maggie Mitchell,” Jimmie 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. I97 

at last found words to say, “I know what you 
mean ; but you must not have any such thoughts 
against Lizzette, for she is a good girl and is a 
friend of yours; and she don’t care any more 
about me than she does about John Bailey or 
Aaron Reynolds, or any of the boys.” 

‘‘Well,” replied Maggie, still unmolified, 
“I’m glad for her sake that she don’t — ” 

“Maggie,” interrupted Jimmie, “you know 
well enough that I love you, but you don’t seem 
to be in a very good humor tonight, so I’ll go.” 

And with these words on his lips he turned 
on his heels and walked away. 

When he was gone, Maggie laid her head 
on the table and the silent tears, which she 
would not have let him see for the world, came 
trickling down her cheeks. She sighed, and 
whispered to herself, “I wonder if he does love 
Lizzette? I’m afraid he does.” And then she 
straightened herself up and said aloud, “He 
shall never know that I care.” As she said this 
there came into her eyes the same look as when 
she stepped in front of the assembled garrison 
and offered to fetch the water from the spring 
in the face of the savage foe. 

At this juncture her father came into the 
room, and walking up to where she was sitting 
laid his hand gently upon her head and said, 

“My little girl is tired, and hadn’t she better 
go to bed ?” 

But she answered, “No,” and rising she 
made him take a chair she had been occupying. 


198 IN THE footsteps OF BOONE. 

and then she seated herself on a stool beside 
him, crossing her hands upon his knees, and 
said : 

“Father,” and she looked into his eyes while 
speaking with an earnest wistfulness, “Tell me 
something about mother while you and she 
were young.” 

The lovelight shone very tenderly from her 
eyes as she said this, and the rough old Indian 
fighter, who could refuse her nothing that was 
in his power to bestow, settled himself down 
for a long and comfortable talk, and the night 
wore on apace before they separated. 

Not so quiet was Jimmy Curry’s rest, and the 
long hours dragged their weary weight along 
until near morning before he found surcease 
from mental struggle and worry. He went 
back to HarrodvSburg and to his work the next 
day, but spoke to no one of his troubles and 
perplexities. He was very miserable indeed, 
and utterly disconsolate for some time. In fact 
he could only find relief from his thoughts in 
restless, physical activity, and he spent the 
remainder of that winter, whenever it was pos- 
sible to be out, in the woods hunting, trapping, 
or chopping; refusing to attend any of the 
dances or other gatherings of the young people 
in the neighborhood. 

His love for Lizzette had not developed into 
a mastering passion, and thanks to the timely 
check she had put upon its further growth, by 
the time Spring had come it had entirely dis- 


tN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. I99 

appeared. He had seen Lizzette but once in 
that time, which was while he was on a brief 
visit to June Stone, when she was very friendly 
to him, but nothing more. 

As a matter of fact he had about recovered 
from his lapse in his allegiance to Maggie, and 
he began to wish that things were on the old 
footing, so he determined to gain his old place 
in her heart, though he had to confess to him- 
self that he did not know how it was to be 
done. 

There was no postal service in those days, 
and very few letters were written, or ever reach- 
ed those remote regions, so he could not write 
to Maggie and ask that he might be allowed to 
call, as might be done today in the same locality. 

Lizzette had tried for some time, unsuccess- 
fully, at first it is true, to be friends with Mag- 
gie, and finally she succeeded in gaining her 
confidence. After this she often spoke to Mag- 
gie about Jimmie, telling her what a manly, 
honest boy he was at heart, so that when one 
day early in the Spring, Jimmie came to her 
and asked her pardon for his impetuous behav- 
ior in the Winter, and told her also of his hope- 
less love for Maggie, of the coolness which had 
sprung up between them, and of the probable 
cause of it, she readily consented to act as 
mediator between them. Her efforts were so 
successful in this direction that a meeting was 
arranged, when Maggie’s father was called in, 
and Jimmie was afterwards at peace with 


200 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


himself and Maggie was no longer jealous of 
Lizzette. 

Lizzette’s place was now recognized by every- 
one, and she had her regular duties to perform, 
besides assisting the teacher in his little school, 
which was held within the walls of the fort a 
part of the day. She had really made herself 
so useful to Mother Bailey, and had so grown 
into the old lady’s affections, that she looked 
upon her as a daughter. 

Mother Bailey often said of her that “she just 
grew into her love.” John Bailey — big, rough, 
honest John — loved her with all his heart, and 
the knowledge of that love made him awkward 
in her presence and miserable when he was not 
with her. He was always doing little things, 
in his clumsy, simple fashion, to lighten her 
tasks, and when she would smile upon him and 
say “Thank you, John,” he was supremely 
happy, and was more than repaid for any little 
service which he had been able to render her. 
In fact he was worshipping her dumbly, but 
devotedly, during these days. 

She would see him looking at her sometimes 
with such a wistful, animal-like expression that 
it went to her very soul, and she almost felt like 
throwing herself into his arms for very pity’s 
sake. It would have gone hard with any man 
who had ventured to offer her an insult in John 
Bailey’s presence, or even if knowledge of such 
a thing had reached him. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


201 


He would sit in the evening listening to her 
talk and looking at her until it seemed that he 
could not bear it any longer, and then he would 
jump up suddenly and go out into the night; 
sometimes wandering far into the country sur^ 
rounding the town, and not returning until he 
knew that his mother and Lizzette had retired. 

At other times he would seem to be on the 
brink of a confession, but he would break off 
abruptly in the middle of some casual remark 
and almost run out of the house. He would 
then saunter into the tavern, which had lately 
started in business in the town, and where the 
prospecting and surveying parties found 
accommodation, for the demand for land in that 
section had become very great, and the influx 
of settlers was large indeed during the greater 
part of that year of grace, 1784. 

On one of these evenings he was passing the 
tavern about dusk. The weather was warm 
enough to draw a crowd of young fellows 
about the outside, and they were talking and 
laughing together as John drew near, so he was 
inclined to stop and mingle with them, espec- 
ially as he saw several of his acquaintances 
among them ; but he noticed that there were 
others, who were strangers. 

He listened to the conversation of first one 
group and then another, until finally he was at- 
tracted particularly to a little group of three or 
four who stood somewhat away from the 
others. He noticed that those composing this 


202 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


group, two of whom were his fellow townsmen, 
were being entertained by a stranger to him, 
a well dressed, rather handsome young man, 
and the frequent bursts of laughter told that his 
conversation was amusing and agreeable, so 
John drew near and listened. While doing so 
he heard this young man ask ‘^And who was the 
dainty little piece of linsey-woolsey with the 
golden hair that I saw come tripping so gaily 
from the store about an hour ago? Gosh, but 
she was as pretty as a picture 

‘‘That, why that was Lizzette, I reckon,” 
answered one of his auditors. 

“And who is Lizzette?” asked the young 
man. “I’d like to know. I must see her again 
— where does she live?” 

“She lives up the street yander, at Mother 
Bailey’s” said his informer; “But” — ^but he 
looked round now and saw John with a brow 
as black as a thunder cloud — “Here’s John 
Bailey himself, an’ he kin tell you more about 
where she lives than I kin.” 

The young man, who was a Mr. Farleigh. 
and who, by the way, was of a very fine family 
from eastern Virginia and had come out to 
Lexington with a surveying party, now turned 
to John and said : 

“Mr. Bailey, my name is Farleigh, and as T 
am to be in this part of the country for some 
time I am happy to make your acquaintance.” 

Then he continued : “We were just speaking 
of a very beautiful young lady who I had the 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 203 

pleasure of seeing this afternoon when you 
Game up — your sister, I presume.” 

Honest John was not used to this kind of 
language, and did not know exactly how to 
take it. It sounded all right, and friendly; 
nevertheless, he did not like the idea of having 
Lizzette’s name bandied about in any way, so 
he blurted out : 

“No, she ain’t my sister, but she lives with 
my mother, and she’s under our protection.” 
And with this he turned on his heel and walked 
away. 

“O,” was all that Farleigh said, and he too 
turned and walked toward the door of the 
tavern. 

“Come on, boys,” he called, “I’ve got some- 
thing pretty good in my room, and they all 
went in, and then Laurence Farleigh heard the 
story of Lizzette Dupont, without interrup- 
tion, and he was still more determined to meet 
her. 

John went home feeling very uncomfortable 
and passed a restless night. The next morning 
he said to Lizzette: 

“Did you see them fellers down to the tav- 
ern?” 

She answered that she had merely noticed a 
crowd of strangers around as she was coming 
from the store, but that she had not paid any 
particular attention to them, and naturally ask- 
ed why : 


204 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

“Oh, nothin’, only one of ’em had better eyes 
than you. He said he saw you yesterday, an’ 
he liked your looks pretty well, too.” 

Of course this only made Lizzette anxious to 
hear more, for she was intensely human, albeit 
possessing a very womanly nature and some- 
what retiring disposition ; but seeing that John 
was not in the very best of humor she did not 
question him further at this time. 


CHAPTER XXL 


A few more days rolled around, when, chan- 
cing to be in Mr. Wilkerson’s store again on an 
errand for Mother Bailey, Lizzette met Aaron 
Reynolds, and was talking to him when Mr. 
Farleigh walked in and stopped to speak to 
Reynolds, but seeing Lizzette in conversation 
with him, lifted his hat and was about to with- 
draw, when Reynolds, who liked Farleigh, in- 
troduced him to Lizzette. 

Thus it happened that Laurence Farleigh and 
Lizzette became acquainted, and when Liz- 
zette started to return home Mr. Farleigh walk- 
ed to the door with her and asked if he could 
not see her home and assist in carrying the 
bundles. she had purchased. Of course she 
could not refuse such a gentlemanly offer, and 
they proceeded side by side to Mother Bailey’s 
cabin door. When there, he lingered at the 
threshold and talked for some moments. He 
told her that he had seen her on the street the 
day before, and had heard something of her 
romantic story from others ; but that he wished 
to call and get her to tell it to him, as he had 


2o6 in the footsteps of BOONE. 

been very much interested in what he had 
heard, if she would be so good as to let him 
come and hear it from her own lips. 

Lizzette being much pleased with his man- 
ner, told him that she would be glad to see him 
again. A day or so afterwards he called and 
she told her story to him, and they found out 
in the course of conversation that they had 
some mutual acquaintances back in the East. 
He told her that he would like very much to 
meet June Stone, of whom she had spoken in 
glowing terms. 

“He must be quite a hero,” he said, “and I 
should like so much to see a real live hero.” 

“Now,” said she, quite seriously, “you must 
not make sport of him, for he does not pose as 
a hero by any means. You will find, when you 
meet him, that he looks much as do the other 
men in this locality, and that he acts very much 
like any other man would in his surroundings, 
except that he is handsomer than most of them, 
and that he is as good as. gold.” 

“I quite envy him already,” returned the 
young man, “and if you are such a partisan of 
your friends I hope sometime to be classed 
among them.” 

Farleigh came very often after this to Moth- 
er Bailey’s, much to the disgust of John, and 
also much to the disturbance of Mother Bailey’s 
peace of mind, for she could not see the good of 
what she called “Foolin’ roun’ like that young 
feller was.” 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 207 

To Lizzette the young man’s coming was 
like a gleam of sunshine on a cloudy day. He 
brought with him a breath of the atmosphere 
she had known — a scent of the ocean was waft- 
ed to her, a glimpse given back at the things 
that were gone. She did not ask herself why 
he was seeking her company, nor did she try to 
look into the future in order to understand, if 
possible, the outcome of the pleasant associa- 
tion with him — the present was enough. 

She was happy, and no thought of any seri- 
ous complication, at least on her part, had come 
to mar the free interchange of thought between 
them, and his conversation was certainly very 
pleasant. 

As far as he was concerned, he found her 
charming, superior in education and refinement 
to the large majority of her neighbors, and her 
company an exceedingly agreeable exchange 
for the tedium of his daily tasks. He had 
thought to while away an agreeable hour or so 
now and then in her company until it was time 
for him to strike camp and pitch his tent in 
other parts. But as the days went on and his 
work took him further and further away each 
day, he found himself taking long and rapid 
rides into Lexington — and for what? 

At last he was compelled to admit to himself 
that it was for the sole purpose of seeing this 
little frontier girl, to hear the sound of her 
voice, to see the sunlight rest on her hair and 
turn it into a golden halo. 


2o8 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


He drew his horse up suddenly on one of 
these return rides and asked himself this ques- 
tion, “What do you mean, Laurence Farleigh, 
take care or you will go too far.” And then he 
took from the breast pocket of his coat a min- 
iature of a beautiful girl clad in costly raiment, 
and gazed at it intently for some time, then re- 
placed it with a sigh. 

John Bailey was very observant of Lizzette 
in these days, and he noticed that whenever Mr. 
Farleigh called there appeared, inexplicably to 
him, a little touch of color in her hair or at her 
throat which added something of womanly 
beauty; perhaps it was a flower here or a rib- 
bon there, or kerchief folded in some graceful 
and mysterious way and brought over her 
shoulders and crossed over her bosom. There 
was something done, some little feminine touch 
added to her toilet which it did not seem worth 
while for her to do before, but which added to 
the effect; and her eye was of a deeper blue. 
John saw all this and it troubled him, while it 
charmed him, though he could not explain it. 

Mother Bailey became so uneasy that she de- 
termined to speak to June about it. 

“If they care for each other,” he said, “it’s 
all right ; but if he’s trifling with her, he’d bet- 
ter never have crossed the mountains.” 

One Saturday afternoon, after Farleigh had 
been in the neighborhood for a couple of weeks, 
perhaps, he rode into town, and after making 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 209 

some purchases at the store he went to Mother 
Bailey’s and asked for Lizzette. 

Lizzette was at home, but she was now en- 
gaged in kneading some dough for the bread 
baking, and Mother Bailey answered the young 
man’s request somewhat testily. 

“Lizzette is in the kitchen doin’ her work, 
an’ if you want to see her you’ll have to see her 
in there, cause she can’t stop now.” 

“She said this in the hope that it would de- 
ter him from seeing Lizzette and that he would 
take his departure without more ado; but in 
this she reckoned without her host, for instant- 
ly Farleigh hastened to say : 

“Then, Mrs. Bailey, I’ll go into the kitchen, 
too.” 

The good woman could not object further, 
for she had given him an implied invitation to 
do just what he proposed to do. And as for 
the young man, he thought that Mother Bai- 
ley’s invitation had the ring of a challenge in 
it, and this made him more determined to ac- 
cept it. 

So she only replied : 

“Walk in, then.” 

Farleigh entered the cabin and passed 
through the house to the kitchen door and 
stood on the threshold watching the young 
woman at work. 

She stood at a table working the dough skil- 
fully back and forth and round and round in a 
wooden bowl. Her sleeves were rolled up 


210 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

above the elbows, showing arms as plump and 
white as any lady’s in the land, and dimpled 
like a baby’s, for she had grown quite robust 
during the winter. 

She was singing to herself while he stood 
there in the door, and Farleigh thought it quite 
too pretty a picture to be dissolved by a word, 
just yet, at any rate, so he kept perfectly quiet. 
He knew that she was entirely ignorant of his 
presence. 

At last she looked up and glanced around, 
just as persons are apt to do when the look of 
another is fixed upon them for any length of 
time, and she caught such a look of admira- 
tion on his countenance that it brought the 
blushes to her cheeks, and the surprise caused 
her to drop the bowl. 

Instantly he sprang forward to the rescue, 
and at the same time she bent over to recover 
the bowl, consequently they reached it about 
the same time and raised it together from the 
floor, with the dough still in it, for, wonderful 
to relate, it had fallen bottom down. And now 
they stood, each with a hand on either side of 
the bowl, holding it between them, he with 
laughing eyes looking into hers, she with the 
blush of confusion mantling her cheeks and 
brow, and stammering: 

“It was so awkward of me, but you took me 
so by surprise — I thought it was only John.” 

And he — well, in some inexplicable way his 
hand had imprisoned one of hers on the edge of 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


2II 


the bowl — and he just added to her confusion 
by exclaiming exultantly : 

“You are my prisoner now, and I claim part 
of the dough, having assisted you in rescuing 
it, and I won’t let you go until you promise me 
some of the bread you make out of it by way of 
ransom.” 

Then quickly recovering herself, she answer- 
ed : 

“You must have your way, as I am at your 
mercy, and that means that you will stay to 
supper with us and receive the ransom.” 

“Then,” said he, “you are paroled until sup- 
per time,” and he insisted on placing the bowl 
on the table for her. 

When he had done this he said to her : 

“Miss Lizzette, you must really pardon me 
for startling you, but you know you made such 
a charming picture, and such an interesting 
study, as I stood there in the door that I could 
not force myself to speak immediately.” 

“But, Mr. Farleigh,” she insisted, “you 
should have given me some warning of your ap- 
proach.” 

“No, no,” he hastened to reply, “that would 
have spoiled it all and T would have missed my 
invitation to supper ; besides, I was taken some- 
what by surprise myself.” 

“Don’t misunderstand me now, I pray you,” 
he continued, hurriedly. “I don’t mean to say 
that I was surprised to see you working in the 
kitchen, or that I don’t entirely approve of 


212 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


ladies working in the kitchen. I have quite 
frequently assisted my sisters in preparing a 
meal, and I was always proud of their profi- 
ciency as cooks.'’ 

Lizzette soon disposed of her dough for the 
rising, then led her visitor to the other part of 
the house and left him in order to make her- 
self more presentable for company. 

When Farleigh came into the room at the 
front of the house he saw Mother Bailey stand- 
ing at the open door and heard her talking to 
some one who was on the outside of the house. 

“Mrs. Bailey,” said Farleigh, “Miss Liz- 
zette and I have set the dough and she has 
asked me to stay and try some of the pones at 
supper, provided, of course, you will let me do 
so.” 

“Yes, an’ a pretty mess you have made of it, 
I reckon,” answered Mother Bailey; “but we’ll 
be glad to have you eat a bite with us this 
evening.” 

Then addressing the person with whom she 
had been speaking when Farleigh entered, she 
said : 

“Come in, June, Mr. Farleigh is here.” 

Farleigh then knew that he was about to 
meet Lizzette’s hero. He saw a man, appar- 
ently in the prime of life, enter the doorway, 
clad in moccasins, hunting-shirt and buckskin 
leggins, with his long-barreled rifle slung 
carelessly across the bend of his arm, and he 
recognized that here stood before him one of 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 213 

those men who had made it possible and worth 
while for him and men of his profession to be 
in this part of the country at this time. 

Farleigh was no fool, and he liked to study 
men wherever he saw them, and he now re- 
marked this man with peculiar interest. 

Stone was one of the early pioneers of Ken- 
tucky; he was cotemporary with Boone and 
Kenton and men of their ilk., and he had but 
recently been a participant in some of the most 
stirring scenes enacted in this part of the 
world, and of course all this made him partic- 
ularly interesting to Farleigh. 

The cap had been removed from June’s head 
when he entered, and the broad forehead, sev- 
eral degrees whiter where it had been covered 
than the rest of the face, showed intellect in a 
marked measure. 

‘'My name is June Stone,” he said, as he ap- 
proached the stranger with hand extended in 
greeting, “and I am a friend of Mrs. Bailey 
and her family, and I am glad to meet you, for 
she has spoken of you quite frequently lately, 
Mr. Farleigh.” 

Farleigh was much struck by the purity of 
the English which June used, as well as with 
the dignity of his manner and address. 

“Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. 
Stone,” replied Farleigh. “I have heard some- 
thing of you, too, and I hope we shall be 
friends.” 


214 IN tHE EOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

'That lays with you, Mr. Farleigh,” June 
remarked quietly. 

Farleigh noticed that the keen and penetrat- 
ing glance rested on him for a moment with 
something of a warning in it, and that it seem- 
ed to take in every detail of his make-up as 
they proceeded to be seated. 

Gradually, though, as they engaged in con- 
versation, which drifted into topics of general 
interest, the expression became mild and the 
eyes assumed a very pleasant look. 

Before June took his leave it was agreed that 
at an early date the two would arrange for a 
rifle shooting match, Farleigh saying that he 
had heard a great deal of the proflciency of the 
"Long Knives” with that weapon, as he be- 
lieved the Indians called the Kentuckians; re- 
marking at the same time that he had seen 
some pretty good shooting back in Virginia. 

Then Lizzette came running into the room 
like a glad child, and crossing to the older 
man shook hands with him, exclaiming: 

"How do you do, Mr. June, I am so glad to 
see you; you have been making a stranger of 
yourself lately.” 

June took both of her hands in his and held 
them while he said : 

"And how is my little girl? I have been 
over to see George and Mollie and the babies 
and only got back a couple of days ago.” 

He had gotten in the habit of calling her 
"his little girl” lately, that is — well, ever since 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

he had passed sentence of ‘‘being old” on him' 
self in the presence of his dog that night in his 
cabin when we caught him building air castles 
and then deliberately proceeding to demolish 
them. 

Mother Bailey impressed it on him that he 
must come back to supper with them that ev- 
ening. 

Farleigh noted the look that Lizzette gave 
June as she stood with her hands in his, and 
he wondered to himself if she could be in love 
with the hunter. 


CHAPTER XXIL 


After June had left them the two young peo- 
ple conversed on various subjects for some 
time, until Lizzette said she must go and help 
Mother Bailey in preparing the evening meal, 
when Farleigh took his leave, saying that he 
would go to the store and attend to some mat- 
ters and return in time for supper. 

When he had been gone perhaps half an 
hour, John Bailey came in, saying to his moth- 
er : 

“Has that feller Farleigh been here again? 
I don’t like his hangin’ roun’ Lizzette. Every 
time he comes to town now he comes roun’ 
here, an’ it don’t look right to me. Iff knowed 
he meant any harm to her. I’d break his durned 
head !” 

“Now look here, John,” replied his mother, 
“I don’t understan’ him myself, but he’s 
mighty perlite and kind spoken an’ he ain’t 
done no harm yet, an’ I don’t want you to go 
makin’ any trouble, just yet anyhow. You 
just hold on.and let June an’ me manage him.” 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 217 

John said no more, but passed through the 
house grumbling to himself and shaking his 
head in a threatening manner at some imagi- 
nary object or person. 

As he passed through the kitchen where 
Lizzette was working she smiled up at him, 
and said : 

“I’m glad you have come, John, for I want- 
ed some wood to bake my pones with, and I 
want to have them extra nice this evening, for 
we are going to have company for supper.” 

John’s gloomy expression had been dissi- 
pated when Lizzette had smiled at him, but by 
the time she finished speaking the cloud had 
begun to gather again, and when he reached 
the wood pile at the rear of the house it was 
exceedingly black and threatening. He gath- 
ered up an armful of wood and brought it into 
the kitchen and threw it down, not too gently, 
on the floor near the fire-place; he then 
straightened himself up and turned to her with 
an expression she had never seen on his face 
before, and it actually frightened her. 

“Yes,” he cried out, “it’s all right to have 
John roun’ when you want any waitin’ on, but 
when your fine gentleman from Virginy is 
hangin’ roun’ Mr. John kin go — you don’t 
care where !” 

Lizzette looked up quickly, taken entirely by 
surprise and very much hurt, for John had 
never addressed her in such a way before and 
she had never seen him angry. 


2i8 in the footsteps of BOONE. 

“O, Ml*. John, don’t look at me that way,” 
was all that she could say. 

The full tide of angry passion seemed to 
have taken possession of him now, and the 
pent up feelings of weeks burst forth in a tor- 
rent of words : 

“No, you don’t care ’bout nothin’ nor no- 
body since he came here,” he went on. “What 
do you suppose he’s cornin’ here for any way ? 
Is he goin’ to marry you an’ take you back 
with him to be a line lady? Has he asked you 
to — say, I want to know if he has has asked 
you to be his wife.” 

Then he paused, appalled at the effect of his 
hasty words, for Lizzette had risen to her full 
height, and standing with flashing eyes she 
seemed to tower above him, the very imper- 
sonation of righteous wrath. Only for a 
moment did she thus stand though, and then 
a deadly pallor overspread her countenance 
and she sank into a seat at the kitchen table 
and let her head drop between her extended 
arms upon it and began to sob as if her heart 
would break, but no tears would flow. Now 
a change as swift as the lightning’s flash across 
the summer sky swept the storm-cloud from 
John’s brow and filled his naturally kind heart 
with tenderest solicitude. He sprang to Liz- 
zette’s side, bending his big frame over her and 
stroking her hair with his clumsy and toil- 
hardened fingers, but with a touch as soft as 
the fall of a child’s foot on the snow, and said : 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OE BOONE. 2ig 

“Lizzette, forgive me, great clumsy fool 
that I am. Don’t you see what is the matter 
with me; haven’t you seen it all the time? 
Don’t you know that I wouldn’t hurt you for 
every acre of this broad land? My God, to 
save you one tear I would lose my right hand !” 

He paused for a moment and then contim 
ued : 

“Lizzette, Lizzette, I am a rough, uneduca^ 
ted man, an’ I don’t know how to say fine 
words; but I can give you an honest love if 
you will have it.” 

She looked up into his eyes, her own filled 
with tears. 

Then he resumed: 

have tried to keep from telling you this, 
but I just couldn’t keep from speaking any 
longer. When I see that feller with you it 
just drives me mad, and today when I saw you 
in here with him I just got crazy. If I thought 
he meant any good, I wouldn’t mind so much, 
for I know you are too good for me.” 

Lizzette now raised her eyes again and said : 

'Mr. John, I am sorry you feel as you do, 
for I respect and honor you too much to wish 
to give you pain, and I know that you have a 
big, honest heart in you, and that the love you 
offer me is true, and that any woman might 
feel proud to have it ; but John, I must be horn 
est and candid with you, and tell you truly that 
I cannot feel toward you as I think a woman 
ought to feel toward the man she expects to 
marry.” 


220 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


Then continuing, she said : 

“You and your mother have done so much 
for me that I feel that I would be willing to do 
almost anything for either of you. You have 
been such dear, good friends, John — oh, I can 
never repay you for taking me in and giving 
me a home when I had no where to go, and 
when there was no reason for your sheltering 
me except that in the tenderness of your hearts 
it seemed to you that that was the only thing 
to do; but, John, I would not be acting hon- 
estly with you if I accepted your love, and I 
could not deceive you.” 

She paused here, but presently resumed : 

“You must not feel angry with Mr. Far- 
leigh. He has never spoken of love to me, and 
he has never acted otherwise than as a gentle- 
man in my presence. We came from the same 
part of the country and we knew some of the 
same people back there, and it is very pleasant 
to talk over the old times with him — that is all, 
John. 

“And now won’t you promise me,” she 
asked, “that you will still be my friend — God 
knows I have none to lose — and that you will 
not speak to Mr. Farleigh about what we have 
just been talking. Don’t you see that to say 
anything about it would place me in a very 
embarrassing position ?” 

How could he refuse to do whatever she de- 
sired, with those pleading eyes, tear-dimmed, 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


221 


looking into his, and his big, tender heart al- 
most bursting with love and pity for her? 

Yes, he would be friends with her, and that 
meant, with such a nature as his, not only al- 
legiance to the fullest extent, but renuncia- 
tion as well. 

As the afternoon drew to a close, Farleigh 
returned to Mother Bailey’s and soon after 
June Stone followed him. 

John had gone off, but returned just be- 
fore supper was announced, when they all pro- 
ceeded to the kitchen, where supper was 
spread, and began to test the merits of the re- 
past. 

Farleigh was in high spirits and kept Moth- 
er Bailey laughing at his jokes and witticisms 
in spite of herself, until Lizzette thought sev- 
eral times that she would certainly be stricken 
with apoplexy. John was rather quieter than 
usual, and June was making himself agreeable 
with his stories of adventure, brought out by 
Farleigh’s questions, and by his occasional 
humorous references to others he had heard. 

Lizzette waited on the others at table, and 
soon brought out the pones of bread, cooked to 
an extra nice brown crust. 

‘‘Ah, here they are,” remarked Farleigh, as 
Lizzette approached the table with the bread. 

“Do you know, Mr. Stone,” said he, turning 
to June,” that I have a vested interest in that 
bread, a kind of a: mortgage on it ?” 


222 


IN the footsteps of BOONE. 


And then bowing in Lizzette’s direction, he 
asked, “Have I not. Miss Dupont?” 

Lizzette blushed, John looked uncomforta- 
ble, and June asked : 

“How’s that, Mr. Farleigh?” 

“Well, you see,” replied Farleigh, “it it this 
way. Miss Lizzette was making the dough for 
that bread this afternoon, when some one came 
in at the door and made a face at her and 
frightened her so that she dropped the bowl 
in which she was mixing the dough, and I, 
who happened to be in the house at the time, 
rushed into the kitchen and rescued it from 
the floor and handed it to her with my most 
graceful bow. She was so overwhelmed with 
gratitude that she immediately, asked me to 
supper, and thus you see I have proven my 
claim.” 

“Good!” exclaimed June; “I suppose we all 
owe you a vote of thanks.” 

Even John was forced to laugh at the ingen- 
uous turn which Farleigh had given to the in- 
cident, though he had seen a portion of llie 
scene enacted; and he began to feel that he 
might have been inclined to attach too much 
importance to the incident. 

In like manner the conversation flowed on 
until it was time to leave, when Farleigh man- 
aged to speak for a moment alone with Liz- 
zette — and this was what he said to her: 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 223 

must see you tomorrow. I am going 
away Monday, and will hardly be here again 
before I return to my home.” 

He and June went out of the house together, 
and as they passed along the street, June said 
to him: 

“I have made arrangements to have the rifle 
shooting at my place on next Saturday; will 
that suit you ?” 

''All right,” responded Farleigh, "I will be 
there and will bring one or two of the boys 
over with me. We break camp on Saturday 
evening, but I can get the men to wait until 
next day before starting.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


That night after she had retired Lizzette did 
not go to sleep for some hours, for she had 
much to think over. 

Her first thought was of John. 

“Dear John, what a big, kind, impetuous 
fellow he is. I wish I could love him as he de- 
serves to be loved and as he wishes me to. I 
was afraid he was beginning to care too much 
for me. I do love him as I would a great big 
brother — but not like he wants me to. But 
why don’t I — why can’t I ?” 

And then she began to dream — dream wak- 
ing dreams; to dream of a mansion on the 
banks of the far-away James River, with the 
sun-light on the water and the broad and 
grassy lawn dipping its feet in it, and she heard 
the song of the birds and the lowing of the 
kine mingled with the voices of the negroes, 
and she saw the broad acres of field and for- 
est stretching for miles. She heard, too, the 
voice of the master of all this — and it was 
whispering words of love into her ear and say- 
ing: Lizzette, Lizzette, this is your Virginia 
home and I am your Laurie.” 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 225 

And then — and then the spirit of her dream 
changed and the mangled forms of her sister 
and her baby rose before her mind’s eye, and 
the wild Avar-whoop sounded in her ear and 
the agony of death seemed again to sweep 
over her — and presently the form of a man 
rose before her dressed in the garb of a hun- 
ter, and this man seemed to stretch out his 
arms to her, and she ran into them and was 
saved; and the face of this man seemed to her 
half-awakened fancy like the face of some 
“fair god.” And then she fell asleep as the 
vision of the mansion on the James faded 
away. 

The next afternoon brought Farleigh to the 
Bailey’s home again. It w'as a charming day, 
one of those early spring days which some- 
times come as forerunners, more than hinting 
at the glorious warmth of the sun and of the 
softened blue of the sky later on. Even now 
the buds on the trees and shrubs had burst and 
the lighter shades of the tender green had been 
pushed out to gather strength and color from 
the smiles of the god of day. The little blades 
of grass had risen from their winter’s sleep 
in the bosom of Mother Earth and were 
already feeling their way upward into the 
light and warmth of a new awakening. 
The bees were droning their song while 
at work among the earliest blossoms, and the 
gossiping hens heralded the news of fresh- 
ly laid eggs. 


226 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


Everything in nature suggested the awak- 
ening of dormant energy, of the starting of a 
new life, the resurrection morn of dead hopes, 
the beginning of another one of a new never- 
ending succession of seasons. On such a day 
the voice of the earliest flower which trails 
close to the earth beneath the dead and damp- 
ened leaves and only shows its pretty face to 
those in nature’s closest confidence is heard 
and seen by sympathetic ears and loving eyes; 
and it smiles and says, “We slept and were 
buried for a time, but then we awoke and arose, 
and we live again — and we rejoice in the love 
which created us, and has created us anew.” 

Farleigh and Lizzette felt something of this 
as they stood at the door of Mother Bailey’s 
cabin and looked around them, and presently 
the young man spoke : 

“Lizzette, Miss Lizzette, let us go out into 
it, let us walk out into the sunshine.” 

And she answered : 

“Yes, let us walk.” 

Very soon they had left the houses behind 
them and were strolling across the fields and 
away from the town. 

They did not talk much for a time for their 
souls were filled with the beauty of the day. 
Its subtle charm had entered the inner sanctu- 
ary of their hearts, and the thoughts of each 
went away from self and from earthly things 
and rose and rose until they were lost among 
the mysteries that dwell beyond that unfath^ 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 227 

omable sea of blue above. Anon they entered 
the woods, and in its depths, on the bank of a 
stream, they found a bed of arbutus. 

They gathered quite a good-sized bunch of 
the fragrant blossoms and sat down to rest — 
and to dream. 

Farleigh broke the silence finally: 

“Lizzette,” he said, while holding a sprig of 
leaf and flower between his thumb and finger, 
“do you know that you remind me of this lit- 
tle flower?’’ 

“What a fancy; but how so, Mr. Farleigh?” 
she asked. 

“Well, I hardly know how to tell you,” he 
replied. 

Presently he resumed : 

“You appear to me very much like this 
flower, hardy enough, perhaps, but which is 
found where its beauty and fragrance will 
hardly be recognized, and certainly not appre- 
ciated at its true value.” 

“Men tread on this little flower,” he con- 
tinued, “not in wantonness, but in ignorance, 
crushing out its life, and when it gives out its 
sweetness in death they only know that some- 
thing pleasant came in their pathway without 
in the least understanding or heeding what it 
was.” 

She understood his allusion, and she also 
thought that she saw, too, to what this kind of 
talk might lead, and her heart began a quicker 
pulsation. 


228 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


She had noticed that he called her Lizzette; 
but she did not chide him for so doing. It was 
very generally the custom for persons when 
they met in that locality and at that day to ac- 
cost one another by the first name, even among 
persons of opposite sexes, so she would let this 
lapse from his usual manner of addressing her 
pass — today, at any rate, she would not notice 
it — she was so happy now, and they were to 
part tomorrow — he was to go away. 

Did she care if he went? Yes, she was be- 
ginning to fear that she did. She did not reply 
to him, and presently he said to her : 

“Are you happy here — are you quite con- 
tented with your surroundings?” 

“Why should I not be, Mr. Farleigh?” she 
asked quickly. “I have friends here who are 
very dear to me, who have been — O, so kind 
to me, and I have no relations living and no 
friends anywhere else. Yes, I am content.” 

“But, Lizzette,” insisted he, “would you not 
like to live again in the same intellectual and 
social atmosphere and among the same kind of 
people that you once did? These people must 
seem very rough and uncouth to you. Would 
you not like to go back with me in the fall?” 

He was undoubtedly being carried away by 
the force of his feelings now and by the influ- 
ence of her beauty and gentleness. He was 
not a dishonorable man by any means; but he 
seemed to be succumbing to the influences im- 
mediately surrounding him. But what of the 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 229 

memories of the beautiful face which we 
caught a glimpse of some little time back; 
what of the sweet girl who was trusting him 
and waiting for him, perhaps, back there miles 
and miles away toward the rising sun ? 

Ah, Laurence Farleigh, you have, I fear, al- 
ready played, unintentionally perhaps, on the 
chords of a heart as finally strung as any you 
have known in your five and twenty years. 

Lizzette was attracted to you by your cour- 
teous manner, by your bright and witty con- 
versation; she was flattered to some extent by 
your attentions to her; she has become inter- 
ested in you — perhaps she has already begun 
to love you. 

The blood now turned Lizzette’s cheeks to 
crimson and then left them as pale as death. 

“What do you mean, Mr. Farleigh?” 
she asked in a scarcely audible voice. 

They had both risen to their feet, and as he 
rose he started toward her exclaiming; 

“Lizzette, Fll — ” but just at this moment 
his hand touched the miniature in his pocket 
and a sudden palor overspread his countenance 
and his voice died away in a whisper. 

With a great effort he continued presently: 

“I have a sister — a married sister — older 
than myself. She has two little girls and she 
would like to have some one to teach them at 
home, and I thought that perhaps you might 
like to undertake to do so.” 


230 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

“You are very kind and thoughtful, Mr. 
Farleigh,” responded Lizzette, “but as you so 
flatteringly likened me to the lovely but lowly 
arbutus, I will answer you by following out 
your own illustration. You know that the arbu- 
tus has never been successfully transplanted, 
and I am afraid that, like the vine which bears 
this delicate little blossom, my roots have been 
too firmly grounded in this soil by now to live 
and give oiit any fragrance in any other. Shall 
we walk on now?” 

Without intentionally doing so they had 
taken the direction to June Stone’s house, and 
as a matter of fact they were not very far from 
his place at the time. It was still early in the 
afternoon, so they continued to push on with- 
out any definite object or particular destina- 
tion in view. 

But the light of that beautiful day had gone 
out for Lizzette, and Farleigh was no longer 
at his ease. 

He knew that it was only by something very 
like a miracle that he had been prevented from 
saying and doing that which would have been 
an irreparable injury to Lizzette and which 
would have placed him in a situation which he 
could not now contemplate without a shudder, 
for if he had spoken the last word that was on 
his lips he would have been deceiving Liz- 
zette, no matter how much he did love her at 
heart, or he would have been a traitor to that 
other one. He felt that he had begun to en- 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 23! 

tertain such feelings for Lizzette — as were not 
at all compatible with the relations existing 
between himself and the owner of the pretty 
face in the miniature; and he had already felt 
that there was danger in remaining where he 
and Lizzette would be brought together so 
constantly — and now he knew that Fate had 
only saved them both. 

Presently Lizzette asked : 

“How would you like to go and see Mr. 
Stone. We are not far from his place now?’^ 

“I shan’t object,” he replied. 

They found June sitting in the yard, and as 
they approached, he arose and came forward to 
greet them, saying: 

“Why, you have given me a surprise party. 
How do you do, Mr. Farleigh, and how’s the 
little girl?” • 

They both answered him that they were 
very well, and together they all entered the 
house. 

After some little time June proposed that 
they should go and look over the place, but 
Lizzette declined to accompany them, saying 
that she and Tiger would keep house until they 
returned. 

When the men were out of sight Lizzette be- 
gan to look around the house, and before they 
had returned she had found a good many lit- 
tle things which needed tidying; so, Sunday, 
though it was, she added not a few housewifely 


232 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

touches to things before they had entered the 
door again. 

June’s dog had remained in the house with 
Lizzette, as if he were afraid to leave it in her 
exclusive possession. Lizzette and he were old 
friends, however, and they got along famously 
together now. 

When she had finished touching up things a 
little, she kneeled down and took the dog’s 
head in her hands and said to him : 

“Now you must be good to your master and 
take care of him for me, for you know that 
you and I love him very much.” 

And the dog wagged his tail as if to say, 
“All right,” and blinked one eye at Lizzette, 
indicating that he knew a thing or two as well 
as she. 

She laughed and said : 

“I don’t know what you are winking at me 
for, but I understand the wag of your tail.” 

After Lizzette and Farleigh had gone June 
looked around and saw what she had done, and 
heaving a long-drawn sigh he whispered, 
“God bless her !” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


Farleigh and Lizzette reached Mother Bai- 
ley’s before the time for the evening meal and 
he took his leave without entering the house, 
just taking time to say to Lizzette : 

‘T hope to see you at the rifle shooting next 
Saturday, which will be my last visit to Lex- 
ington before I go home.” 

“Yes, I will be there,” she answered, and he 
was gone. 

She stood for some minutes looking out into 
the night, until she was recalled to a conscious- 
ness of her surroundings by the voice of 
Mother Bailey calling : 

“O, Lizzette, has Mr. Farleigh gone?” 

“Yes, mother,” answered she, “he has gone.” 

Lizzette addressed her as mother now. Mrs. 
Bailey continued : 

“Well, then, come in and help get supper 
ready. Did you have a nice walk ?” 

“Yes, mother,” answered Lizzette, “and we 
went to Mr. June’s and I straightened up the 
house while Mr. Farleigh and he inspected the 
farm and stock.” 


234 the footsteps of boone. 

‘‘That’s right, I am glad that you did not 
forget him while you were with Mr. Farleigh. 
June is mighty good to you, my dear, and he 
sets a heap of store by you, too. I was in 
hopes you would take to him; but I reckon 
you are beginning to look a little higher now, 
ain’t you?” Then she continued, without 
giving the girl a chance to reply, “You are 
pretty enough and good enough for the best of 
them, and that’s a fact; but I am a leetle shy 
of Mr. Farleigh and you know he’s been coinin’ 
to see you pretty often lately.” 

They were in the kitchen now, and Lizzette 
looked around at the homely and familiar ob- 
jects and they did seem rather mean and pov- 
erty-stricken to her, and the scene with Far- 
leigh in that very room rose before her mind’s 
eye as she listened to Mother Bailey’s words. 
She felt now that it was all over and that he 
was going away and life would be very deso- 
late to her. She knew for a surety in that 
moment that she had begun to dream of an- 
other life away from all this, one in which she 
would be surrounded by an atmosphere of re- 
finement and comfort — and she also knew that 
she would miss his bright manner and cheerful 
conversation, and his handsome face ; and she 
remembered how he had looked at her when 
he had called her Lizette and had asked her if 
she would not like to return with him in the 
fall, but she did not yet understand what had 
caused him to pause so abruptly and then re- 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 235 

sume with an entirely different expression on 
his countenance when it was evident that he 
used words with a different meaning from that 
which he had originally intended. 

She had felt the change without understand' 
ing it, and she was chilled by it and immedi' 
ately put on the defensive; therefore she had 
answered him as she had done. 

But, O, if he had carried out his first im' 
pulse, if he had finished the sentence begun so 
sponstaneously and so vehemently — she 
thought that, possibly, life would have seemed 
brighter to her then, more worth living. 

She did not reply immediately to Mother 
Bailey, while these thoughts and many more 
went rapidly surging through her brain. Then 
she spoke slowly and deliberately and without 
apparent effort: 

“He’ll not come again — he’s going away.” 

As Lizzette ceased speaking. Mother Bailey 
looked at her intently and she saw the tears 
falling silently, and before Lizzette could 
brush them away, the motherly instinct had 
carried her to the girl’s side and the strong 
but loving arms were about her, and the voice 
in low and tender tones was whispering sooth' 
ing words as to a hurt and tired child. 

Ah, in those hard lives and under those 
rough exteriors, soft hearts were often hidden, 
and the heroic women of those days were not 
without the finer instincts of true and tender 
womanhood. 


236 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

‘‘My child,” said the elder woman, “do you 
keer so much? Well, then, you shall not be 
pestered about it. You kin go to bed just as 
soon as you want to, an’ I’ll do the- work to- 
night.” 

Lizzette did not stay to meet John at supper, 
but went to her room quite early, and to her 
solitary thoughts! 

The next morning she resumed her duties 
as usual, though she was very quiet for the 
next few days. 

John noticed that his mother was unusually 
tender with Lizzette along about this time and 
he felt that something unusual had happened. 
He could not understand the situation, but 
when the week had almost gone by and Far- 
leigh did not make his appearance, he began 
to think that that young gentleman had had 
something to do with the changed condition 
of the domestic atmosphere. 

He said nothing but he thought a good deal, 
and he swore to himself that if he could find 
out that Farleigh had mistreated Lizzette 
in any way, he would pick a quarrel with him 
on some pretext or another and then one or 
the other would certainly get hurt. But he 
learned nothing further to clear up the doubt 
in his mind, and Saturday came and with it 
the time for the trial of skill at rifle shooting, 
which was to take place at June’s place on that 
day. John Bailey was to take part in it, and 
Aaron Reynolds, and old man Mitchell, from 
Bryant’s, and June Stone also. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 237 

Jimmie Curry had come over from Harrods- 
burg, bringing Mollie and young June Stone 
Beatty with him; and Mother Bailey was to 
be there, and Maggie Mitchell and Lizzette, 
and after the shooting June was going to give 
them supper, and if they could get the fiddlers 
the young people would have a dance. 

After these friends and several others of the 
neighbors had assembled, Laurence Farleigh 
and two of his companions came riding up, 
and after the greetings were over, the men folks 
repaired to an open field not far from the house 
and preparations were immediately made for 
the trials of skill. 

Mother Bailey had suggested that perhaps 
Lizzette had rather not meet Mr. Farleigh, 
but she had insisted on being one of the party, 
and so it was arranged. 

It was presently decided by those interested 
in the shooting to first try ‘^driving the nail,” 
after some preliminary shooting had been in- 
dulged in, and several had shown various de- 
grees of skill by firing at one object and then 
another as targets. One of the targets was a 
piece of bark which Aaron Reynolds shot from 
the limb of a tree far up its trunk and picked 
up from the ground. This was considered a 
very fine piece of marksmanship. 

A piece of board was then fastened securel}' 
against the side of a tree and into this a good- 
sized nail was driven sufficiently far to make it 
hold, after which Mitchell and Reynolds 


238 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

stepped off a hundred yards from the tree, and 
they two and John Bailey and Jimmie Curry 
and Farleigh and June Stone took their sta- 
tions with their rifles. All were good shots, 
and the object was to try to hit the head of the 
nail so as to drive it further into the board. 
One of Farleigh’s friends and one of June’s 
neighbors were chosen as referees, whose duty 
it was to note the effect of each shot and to 
decide which was the better. 

Farleigh was the best shot in his camp and 
prided himself on his marksmanship at home, 
and it was not easy to find a man who could 
beat either Mitchell or John Bailey or June 
Stone. Each man was to have three shots, at 
the nail, except in case of a tie, when those tie- 
ing were to shoot Until it was decided between 
them. 

Mitchell raised his rifle first, while everyone 
held his breath waiting to see the effect of the 
first shot. The sharp report rang out on the 
air and everyone saw the nail drop. 

Had he hit it ? What is the matter ? Every 
one is asking such questions. 

The bullet had left its mark and entered 
the board, with hardly a hair’s breadth be- 
tween the hole made by the nail when first 
driven into the board and the one made by the 
bullet. It was finally decided that the head of 
the nail might have been grazed but that it 
was doubtful. It was evident that the nail had 
not been driven in tight enough before the shot 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 239 

was fired and that the shock had jarred it so 
that it fell to the ground. 

Jimmie Curry then missed the nail head by 
about half an inch, then Reynolds put a ball 
just between Jimmie’s and the nail. 

Farleigh’s turn came now, and he hit the 
nail on the head, bending it considerably. 

Another nail was put in position, and John 
Bailey was called on to have a try. 

He determined, if possible, to beat Far- 
leigh’s shot, so he aimed very carefully and 
pulled the trigger. The nail was driven a 
quarter of an inch into the board, but was 
bent, as was the one that Farleigh had hit, 
and these two shots were declared to be a tie. 

Both men received considerable applause as 
the result of each shot was announced. 

June now raised his rifle and glanced along 
the long barrel, paused a moment, and fired. 
The bullet just grazed the nail head. Mitchell 
looked up in surprise, and Jimmie Curry could 
not refrain from exclaiming: 

‘AVhat’s the matter, June?” 

June merely deigned to reply : 

“Didn’t shoot true enought, that’s all.” 

Mitchell now drove the nail with a centre 
shot, and Reynolds clipped a piece ofif the head 
at his next effort. 

“Hurrah, Mr. Mitchell, that shot can’t be 
beat,” cried Farleigh. 

So the shooting went on, and June and Mit- 
chell tied. June drove the nail the second time 


240 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

and Mitchell missed it by the hundredth part 
of an inch, so June was declared the victor. 

Mr. Mitchell declared that he w'as getting 
old and was not as steady handed as he once 
was. 

Jimmie Curry remarked that he guessed 
that when it came to fighting Indians, Mr. Mit- 
chell could hit a buck about as well as any of 
them. Farleigh and John Bailey tied for sec- 
ond place, but as it was gettting pretty dark 
by now June proposed that they should post- 
pone the shooting until after night and then 
try snuffing the candle. 

The female portion of the company, who 
had gathered around to see the shooting, now 
announced that supper was ready, so all ad- 
journed to the house. 

Farleigh met all the ladies and was very at- 
tentive to Maggie Mitchell, much to Jimmie’s 
disgust, though he did not really have an op- 
portunity to speak to Lizzette during the early 
part of the evening. 

During the heat and excitement of the after- 
noon Farleigh had hastily thrown off his coat, 
and in doing so had caught the string which he 
wore around his neck and which was attached 
to the miniature which usually lay in the 
pocket of his hunting shirt, on a button and 
broken it, at the same time jerking the picture 
from his pocket, which fell to the ground. But 
he had not as yet missed it. John Bailey saw 
it fall to the ground and picked it up, intending 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 24I 

to hand it to Farleigh, who wa? then in the act 
of shooting. He placed the miniature in his 
pocket accordingly, but as it was his turn to 
shoot next he forgot all about his find, tempo- 
rarily at least, and it lay there next to his heart. 

After supper the men placed a lighted candle 
in the open, and pacing off as before, except 
about fifty yards this time, they began to shoot 
at the candle, endeavoring to snuff it without 
extinguishing the flame. Several of them suc- 
ceeded in doing so, and among them was John 
Bailey, but in this Farleigh could not cope 
with John, nor with the others, and he had to 
acknowledge that he was fairly beaten here. 
This pleased John greatly, and he began to feel 
more kindly toward Farleigh. 

‘‘Well,” he said, ‘^you are a blamed good 
shot any way, and if you stay in Kentucky 
long enough you’ll be as good as any of us.” 

And then John thought of the miniature. 

“I go away to-morrow, Mr. Bailey,” replied 
Farleigh, ^^and I don’t suppose that I will be 
in Kentucky any longer than sometime in the 
fall, but I’ll practice as much as possible before 
I do go, for we have some good shooting yet 
on the James River. 

“Well, Mr. Farleigh, I wish you luck; but 
before I forget it I want to give you a picture 
you dropped this evening, as I have not had 
the chance to hand it to you before.” 

“A picture!” exclaimed Farleigh; and then 
he began to hastily fumble in his pockets. “O, 


242 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

yes, I must have broken the string, for it was 
on a string around my neck.” 

Just as John was handing the picture to Far- 
leigh, Lizzette came up to them. They were 
standing Within the room, and the firelight en- 
abled her to catch a glimpse of a very pretty 
face as Farleigh took the miniature. 

“Thank you,” said Farleigh, “it is mine, and 
the likeness of a friend of mine back in Vir- 
ginia.” 

Lizzette had heard what he told John about 
wearing the miniature on a string around his 
neck, and she suddenly remembered the start 
and the convulsive clutch at his breast pocket 
when they were in the woods on Sunday, and 
she remembered seeing the string around his 
neck, too; then matters began to be plainer to 
her. She did not think that it could be a like- 
ness of the married sister of whom he had 
spoken to her then. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


It was not long after this that Farleigh and 
his two companions took their leave. 

Lizzette found relief only in constant occu- 
pation from the thoughts that troubled her for 
a time after he had gone, and it was with a 
feverish energy that she sought and performed 
the tasks assigned her. She almost regretted 
at times that Farleigh had not spoken, but then 
with the light that the incident of the minia- 
ture threw upon his relations with her, she 
knew that it was best that he had not. She 
knew very well what it meant when he had 
said that it was the likeness of '^a friend of 
mine.’' 

She knew that it was not a likeness of his 
sister and that the friend whose miniature he 
carried so close to his heart must be very dear 
to him, and she also knew that now there could 
be no question of love between them. 

He had gone without again mentioning the 
subject of her going back to Virginia with 
him. The question of her employment by the 
sister had been only hinted at, and she had 
made it plain, in figurative language it is true, 


244 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

that if any such offer was made she would de- 
cline it ; at least her language was plain enough 
to prevent Farleigh from taking any further 
action in the matter — unless indeed she should 
broach the subject anew and intimate to him 
that as far as she was concerned negotiations 
looking to the fulfillment of some such ar- 
rangement might be begun between the brother 
and sister. If such plans were consummated 
she would certainly be in more congenial sur- 
roundings — among educated people, in reach 
of many of the comforts and luxuries of life. 
Life would undoubtedly be easier, and the dan- 
gers to which she was, like the rest, exposed 
here on the frontier would be removed, and — 
she would be near him. ♦ 

Ah, like some insidious fever vapor, this 
thought would rise up and mingle with these 
other thoughts. Never acknowledged was it, 
but with trembling fingers it was always pushed 
back to vanish temporarily and then to hover 
around again and make its presence felt by the 
aching pain it gave. 

By determined effort she summoned other 
thoughts to her aid and the question was pre- 
sented to her, what would be her position — 
her real position — if she were installed as 
teacher or governess to his sister’s children? 
She would be only a hireling, really a kind of 
servant, never to be received on social equality 
with the family or the friends of the family. 

She knew the proud reserve and exclusive- 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 245 

ness of these people. Farleigh would marry the 
original of the pretty face in the miniature 
and her position would be unenviable indeed. 
If she should be so fortunate as to gain their 
friendship and confidence, it would be in a con- 
descending way that it would be given; she 
would of necessity be more or less dependent 
on their charity or good will, so she concluded 
that it was best that things turned out as they 
had. 

She had the mother-love of the good woman 
in whose house she lived, and which had been 
given without stint; the friendship of the big- 
hearted son of the house, nay, the love of his 
generous nature, if she would have it, was 
hers; and the brotherly love and protection 
and the friendship of that other man, the 
sturdy Indian fighter who had saved her life; 
and the love of the little children in the school 
— all these were hers, and were very dear 
to her — and she was looked upon as the equal, 
if not* much more, of these people. What more 
could she wish ? The kindliness of those 
among whom she lived appealed to her nature 
very strongly, and their rough and uncouth ex- 
teriors only made their truthfulness and hon- 
esty more apparent, and touched her heart to 
warmth and responsiveness with a peculiar 
and appealing pathos. By education her sus- 
ceptibilities had become finer than theirs, per- 
haps, and she had at least known more of the 
refinements of life than the most of them; but 


246 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

nevertheless she had a mind and a heart as 
well, and she knew the real worth of these peO' 
pie — and she determined to lock the secret of 
these day-dreams in that heart and let their 
memory fade into forgetfulness. The Indians 
were now becoming more and more trouble^ 
some and aggressive, frequently committing 
depredations upon the remoter settlements, 
running horses off, killing the cattle and some- 
times taking human life; in fact, a general up- 
rising was greatly feared. Whenever an up- 
rising of the different tribes did occur an in- 
vasion of Kentucky was sure to follow unless 
prevented by carrying the war into the enemy’s 
country. 

Kentucky had by this time been divided into , 
three counties — Jefferson, Fayette and Lin- 
coln. 

Fayette County now included all that por- 
tion of Kentucky which lies north and east of 
the Kentucky River from its mouth opening 
into the Ohio, and following the former Stream 
to its head and extending south to the District 
of Washington, now the State of Tennessee. 
June Stone, with others from in and around 
Lexington and Bryant’s, went forth as occa- 
sion demanded to the relief of the settlements 
and to the punishment of the Indian depreda- 
tors; for he had been elected and appointed as 
a captain in the militia. 

During the next winter he was chosen as 
a delegate to a convention to be held at Dan- 


IN tHE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 24*7 

ville in December, which place was a compara- 
tively new settlement across the Kentucky 
River, near Harrodburg, and which had grown 
to be of considerable importance. At this 
place had been built the only house large 
enough to accommodate the court and its bus- 
iness, and on account of its commodiousness 
it was used for the convention. 

The principal object of this convention was 
to consider the question of a separation from 
Virginia, this move being advocated by a large 
majority at this time. But not yet was it ac- 
complished, for in May of the next year an- 
other convention was held at Danville for the 
same purpose, and in order to show the mind 
of the people there represented it was unani- 
mously resolved that a petition should be pre- 
sented to the Assembly of Virginia praying 
that Kentucky might be established as a State 
separate from Virginia. 

After this other conventions were held from 
time to time for some years before the desired 
end was accomplished and Congress admitted 
Kentucky as a State. 

During all this time there were two parties, 
both desiring separation — the one by peacea- 
ble means, the other peaceably if it could be 
done in this way, but by force if need be. 

Our friend, June Stone, was of the first- 
mentioned party, and of course he had his fol- 
lowers, those who were influenced by him — 


248 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

and among these he had no more devoted fol- 
lower than John Bailey. John belonged to 
June’s military company, in fact was his first 
sergeant, and when it came to voting for del- 
egates to conventions he always voted for his 
captain. 

So it happened that June came to be of con- 
siderable local importance and somewhat of 
a politician, not in the vulgar sense of the 
word, but in that he was called upon more than 
once to present in the councils of those days 
the opinions of the people among whom he 
lived. 

Bright and early on the morning of the 26th 
of December, 1784, Mother Bailey and Lizzette 
were at June’s place, for on that day he was to 
start to the convention at Danville. He in- 
tended to leave home early enough to reach 
his destination by nightfall so as to be ready 
for business next morning. 

Each of the various militia companies had 
appointed a delegate to this convention, and 
June was to make his first appearance as a rep- 
resentative of the people in a deliberative body. 
Lizzette was quite proud of him, and she and 
Mother Bailey had taken it upon themselves 
to make him presentable as far as his personal 
appearance went. Mother Bailey had washed 
and ironed a white shirt with a turned-down 
collar for him, and just before he went out for 
his horse Lizzette came up to him with a neat 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 249 

black scarf, which she had purchased at the 
store, and said: 

“Now, Mr. June, you must let me make you 
a tie, so stoop down so that I can reach you.” 

As he stooped for her to put the scarf around 
his neck and under his collar, the brown locks 
fell over his forehead and brushed her temple. 

“Now,” she said, “hold up your head.” 

He obeyed her, and when she had tied the 
scarf into a neat bow in front, their eyes met, 
and a swift tide of crimson swept over his 
countenance and was reflected in a lovely blush 
which diffused her cheek and neck. 

“I think you will do now,” said she, as she 
hastily finished the bow and gave it a last little 
pat. ♦ 

He had discarded the buck skin leggins for 
breeches, hose and shoes, except when engaged 
in the chase or when on some warlike expedi- 
tion. On this day he had put on his best hunt- 
ing shirt over the white one, opened at the 
throat, and he also wore a hat on his head. He 
w^as soon mounted on his horse, with his rifle 
laid across the crupper, and was ready to start. 

The ruffled collar, knee breeches, hose, and 
buckled shoe were worn by a good many at 
this time in Kentucky, and not a few persons 
were seen thus appareled, especially among 
the spectators at the convention, mingling with 
those clad in the coarser, but not less pictur- 
esque, grab of the hunter. 


250 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONF. 

John Bailey was to stay at June’s place until 
his return, attending to the stock and doing the 
necessary chores around the house during the 
latter’s absence, which would probably not be 
longer than the day after to-morrow. 

Lizzette was the last to bid him farewell, 
just before he rode away, and as she stood be- 
side the animal he sat so well she thought him 
a very handsome specimen of manly beauty 
and strength. 

And she spoke lightly now : 

‘‘Yes, you’ll do. Captain June Stone.” Then 
with rhore feeling and seriousness in her tone 
she continued, “Now go and serve your people 
in council and show them that you can talk as 
well as fight on occasion.” 

“Good-by, little girl,” he replied, as he laid 
his hand very gently, as if in benediction, on 
her head. “I’ll have to speak and act as best 
I can, according to my lights.” 

There was certainly a caress in the touch of 
the hand as it lay where he had placed it, and a 
pathos and a tone of deep earnestness in his 
voice as he spoke, and she recognized both. 

After he was gone she stood and looked 
after him until he was lost to sight among the 
trees, and then she turned and walked slowly 
into the house with bent head and eyes fixed 
on the ground. As she entered the door she 
sighed and murmured to herself, “I could love 
such a man as that.” 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 25 I 

The two wornen stayed and cooked dinner 
for John, and arranged many little things 
which they found needed attention, especially 
woman’s attention. 

A bachelor’s establishment in those days 
was not noted for its law and order any more 
than such a one is now. Of course I no not 
write of those artistic wonders of the present 
generation which have felt the magic touch 
of culture and money, and where dwells the 
gay and fastidious society bachelor swell, but 
only of the average one. 

They cleaned the house from top to bottom 
and changed the bedding, not by any means 
neglecting the kitchen in their ministrations, 
for they polished up the tin-ware, and with the 
help of John they even swept and cleaned the 
yard around the house, sometimes working 
separately, sometimes together, until the whole 
place put on a different appearance. 

June was not a slothful or slovenly man by 
any means, but woman can always find some- 
thing to do where man leaves off. 

Of course, they laughed and talked and had 
a pretty good time generally, notwithstanding 
the fact that they were working all the time. 

Lizzette felt* lighter of heart than she had at 
any time since Farleigh’s departure, Life 
seemed lighter to her, and she was doing some- 
thing for Mr. June, the man who had done 
so much for her. And too, she wondered to 
herself why they both had colored so when she 


252 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

was tieing his cravat. She thought that he 
was certainly a handsome man, and began to 
count his years, finally concluding that he was 
not so very old after all. 

Mother Bailey would every now and then ; 
break forth with some exclamation, and one 
time, while she and Lizzette were giving their 
attention to the brightening of the cooking 
utensils, she made this rather startling and 
emphatic assertion : 

'‘June ought to get married!” And pres- 
ently she continued, as if talking to herself, 
"the balance of the young men are always 
sparkin’ around the girls, but he just watches 
them and don’t seem to care to join in. He 
makes out that he thinks he is too old for that 
kind of business. Pshaw, Lizzette, he ain’t a 
day over thirty-one. He ain’t much more than 
a boy. Why my John ain’t so many years 
younger than June.” 

And then, stopping her work, she looked up 
at Lizzette and said quite decidedly : - 

"I tell you, if I was twenty years younger 
I’d set my cap for him myself. He’s got a 
mighty big heart in him, and he’s thrifty, too, 
and he’s got plenty of sense back of it all. 

"Sometimes I think,” continued she, "maybe 
he’s been disappointed in love at some time, 
and then again I think that he’s got his eye 
on somebody now. I know June Stone better 
than most of the folks round here, and he talks 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 253 


to me a good deal and tells me things that he 
don’t tell everybody.” 

Then Lizzette asked, more because she 
thought that it was expected of her to show 
some interest in the matter than for any other 
conscious reason : 

‘‘And who do you think it is he has his eye 
on now. I’ve seen him look at Maggie Mit- 
chell as if he thought that she was pretty 
enough.” 

And then, with a mischievous twinkle in her 
eye, she said : 

“I’ve seen him casting sheep’s eyes at you. 
Mother Bailey.” 

“Now look here, Lizzette Dupont,” retorted 
the old lady, “I’m old enough to be June’s 
mother, but if I was your age I’d find out who 
it was — ^and,” she continued, with a ring of 
triumph in her voice, “I b’lieve he’d tell you 
if you asked him.” 

“What makes you think that he would tell 
me?” asked Lizzette. 

“Because,” promptly responded Mother 
Bailey, “I b’lieve he’d like to tell you.” 

“O,” ejaculated Lizzette; but she did not 
press her questions further. 


CHAPTER XXVL 


Mother Bailey and Lizzette returned to Lex- 
ington during the afternoon, leaving John 
with June’s dog for a companion, with whom 
he carried on a rather one-sided conversation 
after they had left. 

''She’s purtier than ever, ain’t she, Tige?” 
asked he, and Tige wagged his tail in token of 
assent. 

"Thought she cared for that feller Farleigh; 
reckon she didn’t, though,” continued he. 
"Wonder if she cares for anybody? If she 
does, tain’t John Bailey, Tige; no, tain’t John. 
Burn if she ain’t a puzzler if there ever was 
one.” 

Presently, glancing in the direction of the 
dog, he said : 

"Look here, Tige, if that girl would marry 
me, I wouldn’t swop places with King George, 
nor with George Washington neither.” 

Then whistling to his companion he again 
addressed him: 

"Now come on, ole fellow, and let’s go and 
git the cows up and milk them, and feed the 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 255 

horses, and then we’ll go an’ git something 
to eat ourselves,” 

With a bark of approval, Tige bounded on 
ahead of John toward the stable. 

On the second day after leaving home June 
came back, accompanied by Jimmie Curry, who 
had been to the convention with his father, 
the latter having been a delegate to the conven- 
tion from Harrodsburg. Jimmie told John 
that June had made a speech and had “put it 
to ’em straight from the shoulder,” and that 
his father and some of the other men had said 
that J-une Stone was one of the best talkers and 
soundest reasoners there. 

It must have been a very unique assemblage 
that Samuel McDowell looked down upon 
when he wrapped it to order, and the most 
important thing in its results which the pen of 
Thomas Todd jotted down was the minute 
' showing the concensus of opinion of those 
present relative to a separation from the 
Mother State. 

These people had practically fought their 
way unaided up to the present time, and now 
felt able to take care of themselves. 

But to return with June to Lexington and 
its vicinity. 

It was not very long after this that other 
merchants followed Wilkinson to the little me- 
tropolis, and the town became quite a thrifty 
business place, controlling the business between 


256 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

the Kentucky settlements and Philadelphia and 
Baltimore. 

Goods were brought by wagon to Pittsburg 
and from there by boat to Limestone, now 
Maysville, from which place they were trans- 
ported to Lexington and from there distributed 
among the interior settlements, even as far as 
into Tennessee. 

There could now be found in the stores, iron 
goods, cutlery, nails, tin-ware, dry goods, 
drugs, queens-ware, tea, coffee and sugar; sold 
in exchange, for the most part, for farm pro- 
ducts and articles of domestic manufacture. 

Money was scarce, and only coin in demand ; 
but many of the men managed to wear the 
frilled shirt bosom and the women to deck 
themselves in the ribbons and dress-goods from 
the stores. 

Lizzette had become quite an expert in the 
weaving of the domestic linen; and June and 
John Bailey had learned that hemp was about 
as profitable a crop as they could raise. 

Lizzette was enabled to procure from the 
stores in exchange for her handiwork many 
articles needful for the adornment of her per- 
son and for the beautifying of her surround- 
ings, and June and John found a ready mar- 
ket for their produce. John Bailey, like most 
of the earlier settlers, had entered a number 
of acres of land near Lexington, and was farm- 
ing it while living in the town for safety. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 257 

John was right when he told Tige that Liz- 
zette was growing prettier as the days went 
by; in fact, she was ripening into a beautiful 
womanhood. 

Lizzette had brought several books with her 
when she came to Kentucky, which had been 
destroyed when the Indians had burned her 
brother-in-law’s house, but she knew their con- 
tents by heart; and Laurence Farleigh had 
given her a small edition of Shakespeare which 
he had brought with him into the woods, so 
that she was tolerably well provided with read- 
ing matter as things went in those days. Be- 
sides, Mother Bailey had a Bible, and June had 
given her a copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress. 

Sometimes when June was at Mother 
Bailey’s he would get Lizzette to read to him 
from The Pilgrim’s Progress or from Shake- 
speare, and they would talk over what they had 
read and exchange many thoughts which came 
to them after such reading. 

Thus they found that they had much in com- 
mon in their tastes, and these readings and 
talks served to revive and keep alive their love 
for the higher and better things in life and to 
satisfy to some extent their longing for some- 
thing more than the mere necessaries of a 
purely animal existence. 

She had read more and was far better educa- 
ted than he was and had seen more of the refine- 
ments of life, but she found in him a ready 
response to the beautiful thoughts of the great 


258 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

bard and a greatful appreciation of and for the 
explanations sometimes found to be necessary, 
as well as a great desire to know more. 

He had known very little of Shakespeare, 
and she was pleased, as well as somewhat sui*' 
prised, to find that nevertheless here was one 
with whom she could safely trust her most sa- 
cred thoughts, induced by their reading, with 
the satisfaction of knowing that they were un- 
derstood and respected. 

She found in the intimacy thus brought 
about that he was truly one of nature’s gentle- 
men, and that it was a pleasure to be his liter- 
ary instructor, as it were. 

The feeling of gratitude with which she had 
regarded him ever since he had come so dram- 
atically into her life was not growing less by 
any means, but was being put into the back- 
ground by a feeling of intense personal interest 
as the man’s mind and character were being 
gradually revealed to her. 

Of course she had known his kindly nature 
almost from the first; his courage she had 
seen tested and had admired it greatly ; she had 
also seen the instinct of battle hold its sway 
over him for a time, but she had noticed that it 
was replaced by a bright smile and softened 
expression when he greeted a friend and 
always his modesty appealed to her. 

It was only gradually, however, and of late, 
that she had begun to see the soul of the man 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 259 

which lay hidden beneath the rough exterior — 
and it pleased and interested her. 

No matter how untutored our lives, how 
rough our characters, how commonplace our 
surroundings, how uninteresting we appear to 
others — unless our natures are sordid, bad — 
it seems that there will come thoughts, desires, 
instincts, if you will, which makes us feel that 
there is something better in life than that 
which we are getting out of it, perhaps that 
arouses in us some ambition to effort — and 
thus it was with June Stone. 

Grist mills and saw mills were in operation 
now on many of the streams, being of course 
run by water power, so that the people could 
have their grain ground and made ready for 
food much easier than formerly and in more 
abundant quantity. And the lumber for 
building purposes was put into much better 
shape than that used in building the first 
houses. 

June Stone, appreciating the advantages of 
the facilities at hand, began, during the spring 
of 1785, to enlarge his house and to make 
it more in keeping with the improved condi- 
tions. Flooring — rough still, it is true, but a 
great improvement on the flattened logs at first 
used — was put in each of the rooms. 

Carpenters there were in Harrodsburg and 
in Lexington, and coopers so that it was possi- 
ble to procure better furniture for the house, 
as well as wooden tubs and buckets for use in 


26 o 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


the domestic arrangements of the household 
— and as we have stated, iron and tin utensils 
could be had at the stores. 

June never neglected his farming operations, 
in fact he was a pioneer hunter and husband- 
man combined. 

He had begun to take quite an interest in 
the improvement of his stock also, especially 
in the breed of his horses. He was considered 
to be a well-to-do farmer, and he even had 
some ideas about beautifying his yard since 
Lizzette had suggested that he plant some of 
the hardier bloom-producing shrubs. 

One day while Lizzette was at June’s place, 
standing in the door-way of the house, she 
said to him : 

“Mr. June, you have fenced your yard, and 
the grass is looking fresh and green, but 1 
think you need some flowers to complete the 
effect.” 

“Now, Lizzette,” said he, “what would an 
old farmer like me want with flowers ? I would 
not know what to do with them and I would 
not have any time to attend to them.” 

“An old farmer like you, indeed,” said she, 
testily. “Mr. June, you are not so old as you 
would like to make us believe.” 

“Well,” replied he with another question, 
“don’t I seem old to you — don’t I look old?” 

She did not answer this question, but instead 
she made a proposition : 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 261 

“If you think you are too old to have flow- 
ers, I don’t, now; and if you will plant some 
rose bushes and some hollyhocks and some 
Other kinds of bushes, why. I’ll come out and 
start them for you and look out for them from 
time to time.” 

However useless the possession of flowers 
might have seemed to him, or however cynical 
he may have been as to his ability to care for 
them, it was not long before he had laid in a 
supply of such kinds as she had suggested, and 
then he went to Lexington for Lizzette to come 
out and show him how and where to plant 
them. 

“Where do you want them put. Lizzette?” 
he asked, as he stood spade in hand by her 
side. Swinging her sunbonnet by the strings, 
she asked in turn : 

. “Where do I want them put? Why, Mr. 
June, they are not my flowers, and I am here 
to help you and to make suggestions if you 
wish me to.” 

“Yes they are yours,” he replied; “I got 
them because you wanted them, and now you 
must tell me what to do with them, and if you 
are going to tend them they ought to be 
yours.” 

So it was finally agreed, and soon both were 
very much interested in the work of setting out 
the shrubs. 


262 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

After this Lizzette had to go out every few 
days to attend to her charges, and along to- 
ward the middle of June her patience and in- 
dustry were rewarded by a generous crop of 
roses. 

One afternoon before she left she plucked a 
nice bunch of them and placed them on June’s 
supper table, whilst he was out of the house, 
and then she said good-by to him in the yard, 
and was off with a skip and a song. 

June called to her : 

“When are you coming out again, little 
girl?” 

“I don’t know,” she called back; not until 
you come and tell me that the flowers need me 
again.” 

After she had gone June came into the house 
to prepare his supper, and he found the table 
spread — and in the center the roses. He stopped 
before he reached the table and took off his 
hat as his eyes fell on the flowers, and then he 
stepped forward and bent his head until his 
curly locks lay against them, and with his lips 
he touched their delicate leaves — and then he 
sank into a chair which had been placed near 
the table, as if overcome with their fragrance. 

He uttered not a word, but sat and forgot to 
eat his supper, until Tiger put his nose into his 
master’s hand and gave a low, sympathetic, in- 
quiring whine. This seemed to recall June to 
a realization of his surroundings and to the 


In the footsteps of boone. 263 

duties and responsibilities devolving upon him 
as a host and master of ceremonies. 

He and Tiger then made a very comfortable 
meal, and while putting things to rights, after 
satisfying their appetites, June essayed to en- 
gage Tiger in conversation by addressing him 
thus : 

“Tiger, don’t you wish she was always here 
to fix our supper table for us, and to put flow- 
ers on it, and — ^yes, and to make the whole 
place bright?” 

And the old farmer, as he called himself, 
actually gave a hop and a skip toward the cup- 
board, with a dish in each hand, and Tiger 
wagged his tail most approvingly. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 


A couple of days after this, Mother Bailey 
and Lizzette were sitting together at work, 
when Mother Bailey suddenly asked : 

‘Tizzette, where did you meet up with that 
Sloan feller that was here last night?” 

‘AVhy,” answered Lizzette, “I met him at 
the store several times lately; he’s clerking at 
Wilker son’s store.” 

“He certainly does dress fine,” said the old 
lady, “but he pears to be most too peart to suit 
me.” 

And then she asked : 

“When is he ’comin ’round again ?” 

“He asked me to go to church with him Sun- 
day night, and I don’t suppose he’ll be around 
before then. Why?” 

“O, nothing, I just had a curiosity to know,” 
replied Mother Bailey. 

But presently she spoke again : 

“Say, Lizzette, June was here the other day, 
and I asked him why he didn’t get married, 
an’ what do you think he said? — ‘Don’t know, 
did you say? Well, then I’ll tell you. He said : 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 265 

‘may be I will some day, Mother Bailey,’ and 
then he said, kinder serious like, ‘Fve lived too 
rough a life and ain’t edicated enough to know 
how to treat a woman, ’an besides I’m gettin’ 
old (an’ the rheumatiz bothers me right smart 
these days,) so I reckon I won’t never get mar- 
ried.’ ” 

“I jest laughed right, out,” continued she, 
“and then I straightened myself up an’ I says, 
now look here, June Stone, you’ve said them 
kind of things to me before, an’ you know what 
I think about that way you’ve got of talkin’ — 
but I jest want to ask you one or two little 
questions : What are you goin’ to do with that 
farm on yourn ? What are you fixin’ it up for, 
an’ puttin’ flowers in the yard an’ sich like for, 
an’ what you keep workin’ so hard for? Now 
will you answer them questions ? says 1. 

“An’ he says : Mother Bailey, you’ve been a 
good friend of mine, ever since I first knew 
you, an’ you’ve been good to Lizzette, an’I 
don’t mind tellin’ you a plan I’ve got in my 
head. I ain’t got any kin folks as I care about, 
‘says he,’ that is, none that I want to leave what 
little property I own to when I peg out. My 
brother back in Virginy is doin’ well an’ is 
worth a heap more than I am, an’ my sister is 
married to a good man, an’ the old folks is 
dead, so I want to leave what I have to Liz- 
zette, ‘says he.’ You know I am very fond of 
Lizzette, an’ she seems kinder to belong to me, 
like as if I were her father or her guardeen, so 


266 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

I thought that if she got married that she an’ 
her husband would not mind, after while, corn- 
in’ out to the farm, an’ takin’ care of me when 
I got too old to take care of myself — an’ if she 
never did get married I’d leave the place to her 
anyhow. Now Lizzette, them are the words 
he spoke to me, as near as I can recollect, an’ 
you know he talked so nice an’ so serious like, 
that I come mighty nigh cryin’ right in his 
face.” 

She ceased speakng for some moments and 
surreptitiously brushed her sleeve across her 
eyes, and then continued : 

‘‘Hump, it makes, me mad to see that little 
jumpin’-jack of a Sloan — and some of them 
other fellers, with their frill shirts an’ buckles 
on their shoes — hangin’ round here. I’ll jest 
tell you what, if I was going to marry anybody 
I’d marry a man, I would.” And with this she 
started to leave the room. 

But Lizzette stopped her, exclaiming: 

“Why, dear Mother Bailey, I am not going 
to marry any of them ! They don’t come to see 
me any more than they do the other girls. Mr. 
Sloan, I know has been out to Bryant’s to see 
Maggie Mitchell several times lately.” 

And continuing she said : 

“I do appreciate the many kindnesses Mr. 
June has done for me, and as for what you tell 
me he still intends to do for me, I hardly know 
what to say about that; it just shows his great, 
big, kind heart; and I only wish I could do 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OP BOONE. 267 

something to make him know that I am not un- 
grateful. 

When she was alone she said to herself : 

“God bless him, he needs somebody to take 
care of him now, and if he were to ask me to 
undertake to do so, I think I would try it. I 
wonder if I love him — I think I do; but he 
looks on me as a little girl.” 

Sunday night came, and with it Mr. Jona- 
than Sloan, rigged out in his best. 

He was not a bad looking young man, but 
very vain, having a specially good opinion of 
himself, and believing that he was perfectly ir- 
resistable to the fair sex. As a matter of fact, 
most of the girls were more or less flattered by 
his attentions. 

Lizzette had been in his company on several 
occasions and did not dislike him, though she 
saw through his pomposity. 

He could, on occasions, make himself rather 
agreeable, and Lizzette felt some little natural 
pride and triumph in the fact that of late he had 
seemed to attach himself to her in preference 
to the other girls in the town. 

Fair reader, she was young, she was human,^ 
and though a girl of correct principles, she was 
not altogether exempt from the frailties of her 
sex:. 

After returning from church Sloan remain- 
ed some time, and made desperate love to Liz- 
zette. 


f 

t 


268 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

She was not simple, however, by any means, 
and she fenced with him to advantage for some 
time, parrying his advances with considerable 
skill; telling him that she had heard that he 
talked in the same way to Maggie Mitchell and 
to Bessie Johnston and to all the other girls; 
teasing him, holding him at arms length, as it 
were, until he became angry and reckless in 
speech and maddened to such an extent that he 
determined to punish her in some way for 
treating his protestation of love and devotion 
with such levity, unbelief, and almost ridicule. 

At last in great excitement he cried out : 

‘‘Then you don’t believe that I am in earnest ; 
you don’t think that I love you with my whole 
heart; you won’t understand that I want you 
to be my wife?” 

“No, Mr. Sloan,” she replied, “I don’t take 
you altogether in earnest. If I thought that 
you meant what you said; that you really 
thought that you wanted to make me your wife, 
I would thank you honestly for the offer to 
make me such, and would regret, most sincere- 
ly, that I should have to hurt you, perhaps, by 
declining to accept your offer, for I do not and 
could not love you as a woman should love 
the man who is to be her husband.” 

He was, possibly, a good deal more in earn- 
est than she realized, but his vanity was hurt 
more than his heart. It piqued him a good 
deal to be refused by any girl, but especially to 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 269 

be refused outright by this little frontier no- 
body, as he thought of her now. 

He, too, was from the East, and more recent- 
ly than Lizzette was, and he looked on the peo- 
ple of this part of the country in which he had 
taken up his present abode as very little re- 
moved in point of civilization from the sava- 
ges.^ 

‘‘Oh, ho,” cried he in rage, “you refuse me 
then, do you, with your fine airs and your fine 
talk. You must have learned them, from what 
I hear, since a certain Mr. Farleigh visited 
Kentucky and has returned to Virginy, neg- 
lecting to take you with him; or may be since 
he has gone you think you can walk over a bed 
of roses of your own planting into the heart 
and home of your deliverer from the hands of 
the Indians — and if not him, perhaps your 
adopted brother, the estimable John, can 
soothe your heart into forgetfulness.” He was 
almost shrieking now, “You see, I know some- 
thing of your history!” 

“I see, Mr. Sloan, that you evidently do not 
know the temper of certain friends of mine to 
whom you have been referring,” responded 
she calmly and deliberately, “or, if you do un- 
derstand the character of them in the least, you 
will make sure that not one of them ever hears 
of the language you have addressed to me or 
of the vile insinuations you have flung in my 
face. And turning she dismissed him with, “I 
bid you, sir, a very good evening. 


270 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

And then she withdrew from the room, leav- 
ing the young man standing where he was 
when she had interrupted him in the midst of 
his tirade, with a look of mingled amazement 
and resentment on his countenance. 

After she had gone he took up his hat and 
left the house. He had not gotten more than 
three steps from the door when he felt the 
weight of a heavy hand on his shoulder, and 
before he could even turn to see who it belong- 
ed to a grip like iron was on his neck, and 
quicker than thought he was lifted into the air 
several feet above the ground ; then the most 
excruciating pains, beginning in the region 
about the seat of his pants, shot through his 
frame in quick succession, and he was finally 
flung headlong into the mud of the street. 

He lay there stunned for a few seconds and 
then he slowly roused himself to a sitting 
posture and began to look around and to feel 
himself, as if to find out where he was and to 
make sure that he was all there. Having sat- 
isfied himself on these points, he began, with 
difficulty, to raise himself from the ground, 
when he was fairly on his feet again, he turn- 
ed and shook his fist at the house he had just 
left and began muttering something quite un- 
intelligable to any one but himself. But just 
at this moment the heavy -hand was again felt 
on his shoulder and a voice sounded in his ear : 

“None of that, now,” it said. “I heard you 
in the house, you dog, and Fve got a notion to 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 2^1 

break every bone in your durn worthless car- 
kiss, you little, mean, cowardly puppy.” 

And now the hand was removed from, the 
shoulder and the voice continued to make it- 
self heard : 

“You know who I am, and I tell you right 
now if you don’t beg that girl’s pardon fur 
every durn thing you said to her I’ll kill you 
sure’s my name’s John Bailey. You needn’t 
come roun’ again, you jess write it — and’ you 
do it so she’ll git it tomorrow.” 

Then giving Sloan a shove, John warned 
him in these words : 

“Now go; that’s all Fve got to say to you.” 

Mother Bailey had heard the high words in 
the house, though she could not distinguish 
what was said, and she also heard the young 
man leave the house and had almost immedi- 
ately walked to the front and looked out, so it 
happened that she saw what had transpired be- 
tween the two men outside. 

Lizzette had gone to her room as soon as 
she turned from Sloan, and John, as soon as 
he had bidden Sloan to leave, walked around 
the house and entered through the back door, 
all of which took place in less than five minutes 
after Sloan walked out. 

Mother Bailey confronted John as he started 
to his room, and said to him: 

“John, I want to talk to you as soon as you 
have washed your hands.” 


272 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

“Washed my hands/’ queried he; “why, I 
wasn’t goin’ to wash my hands.” 

“Yes, but you will, son,” responded she, 
“for you’ve just had a dirty job to do and I 
know your hands feel kinder dirty.” 

Then she told him what she had seen and 
made him tell her why he had chastised the 
young man. 

She did not say anything to Lizzette about it 
for weeks afterward. 

The note of apology came the next day, 
however, and Mr. Sloan’s wisits to the Bai- 
ley house ceased abruptly. 

Lizzette’s visits to June’s place became less 
frequent also after this, and it puzzled him 
very much to account for her seeming lack of 
interest in the flowers of late. 

He watered the rose bushes and loosened the 
earth around the roots and did the best he 
knew how to care for them, for a week, and 
then he began to be seriously concerned, for 
Lizzette had not been near him during that 
time. He remembered that she had said that 
she would not be out again until he came and 
told her that the flowers needed her attention. 
The bushes certainly looked rather droopy, not- 
withstanding his ministrations, so he deter- 
mined to go into Lexington and tell Lizzette 
of their condition. 

After Sloan had left the house on that me- 
morable Sunday night, her first feeling was 
one of anger and indignation, later she felt 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 273 

humiliated, and as she recalled his words the 
hot blush of shame covered her face and a chok- 
ing sensation seemed to dam up the flow of 
blood and to congest it in her throat. 

Ah, had she so demeaned herself as to have 
her actions construed in such manner as he 
had done ? She would be ashamed to go about 
the town now; she would imagine that every- 
body she met was looking at her askance, and 
thinking of her as an unwomanly and schem- 
ing adventuress. 

She did not see how she could possibly meet 
June Stone with the same unembarrassed ease 
as she had done up to this time, or how she 
could feel comfortable again in his presence. 

As far as John Bailey was concerned and 
her connection with him, she felt that the shaft 
Sloan had shot, seeking to wound her through 
John, would fall harmless. But the reference 
to her connection with Farleigh and the insin- 
uation it carried with it was cruel indeed. O 
— she had not meant to be frivolous, or heart- 
less, or to seem bold. 

And now how could she go to June Stone’s 
freely, as she was wont to do? 

The suggestion to plant flowers in his yard 
and her offer to tend them had been made in 
frank and friendly interest and in the hope that 
through them she might be able to give him 
some pleasure. He had done so much for her 
— and now to have her motives and her actions 
so misconstrued, it was really too much. 


274 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

She was very wretched that night in think- 
ing over recent events, until finally she fell into 
a troubled sleep. 

Next day when she received the note from 
Sloan the atmosphere seemed to clear to a de- 
gree, but she noticed that both Mother Bailey 
and John addressed her and treated her with 
more than usual tenderness and consideration; 
and she wondered if either of them could have 
heard anything of what had transpired be- 
tween Mr. Sloan and herself. 

Of course she was in total ignorance of the 
little episode in front of the house in which 
John and Sloan had figured as the actors. 
Nevertheless, John knew that the note from 
Sloan had been received. Sloan’s reference to 
the bed of roses had put a new train of thought 
into John’s head, and he began to wonder if 
there could be any idea of love between June 
and Lizzette. But he merely remarked to 
himself, “Well, I’ll be durn.” 

Mother Bailey had noticed that Lizzette 
stayed pretty closely in the house for some 
days, and that she did riot go, or say anything 
about going, to June’s place. She was very in- 
dignant at Sloan, and a good deal worried over 
the effect of his words on Lizzette. 

On one occasion, while thinking the matter 
over, she muttered to herself, “It’s a wonder 
John didn’t kill him, for he shorely did get a 
pretty hard fall,” 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 275 

John took occasion to go into Sloan’s place 
of business about the middle of the week, and 
to say to him privately : 

“Sloan, it’s all right about the note, and I’m 
done with the matter if you keep your durn 
tongue from waggin’ about it. But I jess want 
to give you a piece of advice, and that is this, 
that you don’t want to let June Stone ever hear 
anything about it, for if you do, I wouldn’t 
give a flip for your chance of ever gitten back 
to Virginy alive. He’s one of the worst men 
in this part of the country when you git him 
mad.” 

And he continued, “Ef I was you an’ I 
heard any talk like that you said to her Sun- 
day night gitten’ started roun’ town, no matter 
who started it. I’d jess leave Kaintucky nex’ 
mornin’ ’fore daylight.” 

Sloan assured him that he was satisfied to let 
the matter drop and to keep it quiet, so John 
walked out into the street. 

Saturday afternon came, and June came 
also, and stopped at Mother Bailey’s. 

“Howd’y do,” said he, at the same time ^ 
shaking hands with her; “how is everything 
and how is everybody?” 

“Everybody’s well, if you mean Lizzette and 
John and me by everybody,” remarked the old 
lady. 

And then she went on, in an enquiring tone : 


276 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


“Reckin you’ve been pretty busy, ain’t you, 
June, being as you couldn’t find time to come 
to see us for nigh on to two weeks now ?” 

‘"Yes,” he answered, “I’ve been pretty busy; 
but I’ve got my corn laid by now, and I won’t 
be kept so close for a while.” 

Presently he asked, “Where’s John, and Liz- 
zette ?” 

“O,” answered Mother Bailey, “John is 
knockin’ roun’ somewhere; he’ll be in before 
long. Come in June, supper ’ll be ready pretty 
soon.” 

And then she called “Lizzette — O, Lizzette, 
June’s down here, and wants to see you.” 

“Yes, mother,” came Lizzette’s voice from 
in the direction of the kitchen, “I’ll be there as 
soon as I look at the bread.” 

“Lord bless the child!” ejaculated Mother 
Bailey, “I thought she was up stairs’ mopin, 
maybe.” 

A few minutes elapsed before Lizzette made 
her appearance, however, and then she came 
and shook hands with June; but for all the 
world she could not keep from flushing a little 
when they greeted each other. 

' June had a habit of looking a person whom 
he was addressing directly in the eye, and so 
penetrating was his glance that it was rather 
disconcerting to a person who was anxious to 
conceal his thoughts. Lizzette looked into 
his eyes for a moment and then she let her eye- 
lids drop. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 277 

June noticed the movement at once and 
made mental inventory of it, for she had al- 
ways heretofore returned his look fearlessly 
and honestly. 

He did not understand it, but he merely re- 
marked : 

“Lizzette, you have not been out for a week, 
and your flowers have missed you. They 
don’t seem to thrive under my care. 

“Look here,” he continued, and as he said 
this he took from the bosom of his hunting 
shirt a rose and handed it to her, saying, “you 
see it is wilted — you said you were not coming 
out until I came and told you that the flowers 
needed you. I thought you were joking at the 
time but I see you were in earnest, so I have 
come to tell you that they need you, and to ask 
you and Mother Bailey and John if you all 
won’t come out tomorrow. The flowers really 
need your attention badly, and every one of 
them has bent its head in sorrow because you 
have kept away so long.” 

She looked up at him now, but again the 
tell-tale blush painted her cheeks and brow and 
she was forced to drop her eyelids for a mo- 
ment — but only for a moment — and then she 
seemed to recover herself, and said : 

“Why, Mr. June, you are certainly a poet, 
and as you put your invitation so prettily and 
plead the cause of the flowers so eloquently, I 
suppose, if you can induce Mother Bailey and 
John to accept your invitation, I must accept 


278 IN tHE EOOTStEPS OF BOONE. 

in very pity of the flowers, if for no other 
reason.” 

John came in presently, and they had supper 
and enjoyed a very pleasant evening together, 
and it was definitely arranged that they should 
all spend the next day with June. 

Before he left that night he had a talk with 
Mother Bailey in the kitchen, while John and 
Lizzette had betaken themselves to another 
part of the house. 

“Mother Bailey,” said June, “something is 
the matter with Lizzette. I don’t know what 
it is, but she used to think lots of the flowers 
we planted out to my place, and I gave them to 
her and she promised to tend them; but she’s 
acted kinder queer ever since I’ve been here to- 
night, and she has not been out to my place for 
a week. Do you know what is the matter — 
have I done anything to displease her?” 

“No, June, you ain’t done nothin’ of the 
kind. I think I know what is the matter, but 
she don’t know that I know anything about it.” 

Now Mother Bailey was a discreet old lady 
and she did not want to bring about any more 
trouble, so she answered June in this wise : 

“Somehow it got to Lizzette’s ears that 
some people roun’ here was talkin’ ’bout her 
bein’ at your place so much, and you bein’ a 
bachelor, and a lot of nonsense like that — and 
somethin’ was said ’bout plantin’ roses and her 
tryin’ to make up to you in that way; an’ you 
know, June, she’s a mighty proud girl and she 


In the footsteps of boone. 279 

wouldn’t want people to think that way, so she 
was kind of ashamed to go ag’in, and didn’t 
know how to tell you what was the matter, I 
reckon, and thought that it was better for her 
to stay away until people stopped talkin’, any 
way.” 

Continuing, she said : 

“Now mind you, she ain’t said a word ’bout 
it to me, but I’m jes tellin’ you what I have 
heard an’ what I think is the way she’s arguing 
in her mind.” 

“Ah, is that it,” said June ; “then I wish that 
people would attend to their own business and 
not be making trouble for others. I’d like to 
get a sight of the man that spoke a word 
against Lizzette.” 

Presently Mother Bailey asked abruptly: 

“June, why don’t you marry Lizzette, then 
nobody couldn’t say a word.” 

June almost jumped from his chair as he 
cried out : 

“Me, Mother Bailey — me marry Lizzette. 
Why she would not look at a rough old hunter 
like me.” 

“She ain’t lookin’ at any other rough old 
hunter roun’ here, I take notice- — an’ I don’t 
think she’s likely too, nurther,” replied Mother 
Bailey. “You men brag ’bout killin’ bears and 
fightin’ Indians, and doin’ a lot of brave things ; 
but after all you are the biggest lot of num- 
skulls an’ cowards I ever saw, you are afraid 
to ask a woman to marry you, and you ain’t 


28o in the footsteps of BOONE. 

got sense enough to know when she’s likely to 
have you, neither.” 

By this time her indignation was wrought 
up to a high pitch, and she said : 

“Now look here, June Stone, I want to ask 
you somethin’ and you mustn’t get mad at an 
old woman, who thinks a heap of you, and 
ain’t askin’ jes to be meddlin’, and it is this — 
don’t you care nuthin’ fur Lizzette — you know 
what I mean?” 

“Mother Bailey,” answered June, “I would 
not let anybody else around here ask me that 
question, but I am going to answer you truth- 
fully. I do care very much for her and I 
would marry her tomorrow if she really cared 
for me in that way and would have me.” 

The flood gates of pent-up feeling being 
now opened, he continued vehemently, but 
earnestly : 

“I have tried to protect her and help her in 
whatever way that I could, but I have been 
afraid, at times, that I would in spite of my- 
self show the real nature of my feelings for her 
and thus shock and grieve her by that knowl- 
edge, but it has been hard to keep from speak- 
ing sometimes. I have considered myself too 
old and rough for her, and did not want her to 
feel that she was bound to me in any way by 
gratitude. I want her to feel free to choose 
for herself and I had determined that I would 
never speak to her of my love for her.” 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 28 1 

Mother Bailey broke in here with : 

“June Stone, I always knew that you were a 
good man, if you are a hard fighter; and I 
know you want to do what is right; but if I 
was in your place, Fd tell her jes how I felt an’ 
leave the rest to her, and then Fd give her time 
to think it over. She’s a woman now, an’ 
she’s a smart woman, too ; and she’s honest an’ 
she’ll tell you the truth about her feelins,.” 

She paused, but in a moment proceeded 
with : 

“I do wish you could see it like I do, which 
is that it would be the best thing that could 
happen to you both. And now Fm done; but 
I must ask, June — you don’t think that Fm a 
meddlin’ where I ain’t got no business to, do 
you? You know that I am a kind of mother to 
Lizzette, as well as her friend — and yours too.” 

June answered her very earnestly, and said : 

“No, Mother Bailey, I don’t consider that 
you are meddling, and I know that what you 
have said has been spoken in kindness, and I 
want to thank you for this little talk, for it has 
done me good, and I am going to think it all 
over; for I want, as you say, to do the right 
thing by the little girl. But now, I must be 
going, so good-night. Mother Bailey.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


The next day broke on the earth like a glo- 
rious reflection of the benign Creator’s smile, 
and the sun looked on fields of ripening grain 
and tasseling corn, on waving hemp and grassy 
slope, on leaf-covered tree and blossoming 
shrub, and kissed away the dew-drop tear that 
lingered on the face of Nature just awakening 
from sleep. Already the bird chorus was ris- 
ing and filling the world with the exultant 
strains of its grand Te Deum as it ascended 
higher and higher to the Great White Throne. 

Presently there arose from a chimney in the 
town a spiral column of smoke, like an incense 
to the god of Peace and Plenty; and it was 
caught up and wafted away on the gentle 
breeze until it was lost in the blue dome of 
heaven. Then another and another rose until 
the brightness of the sky seemed dimmed for 
a time — and the town was awake. 

The wild animal still lingered in the forest 
around the settlement, but he shunned more 
and more the strange sights and sounds which 
met his gaze and caught his ear when he ap- 
proached the town. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 283 

The Red men occasionally stopped to note 
the signs of a new civilization, and then pass- 
on, casting back a look of hatred, as well as 
of resignation to the inevitable. 

The rude fort and stockades, with the heavy 
gates, still stood sentinel over the town; but 
the church further on, and the log schoolhouse 
over yonder on that slight rise, gave •evidence 
that the inhabitants of this little metropolis 
and vicinity were turning their attention to 
other matters than those of war and were be- 
ginning to study the ways of peace. 

The closed doors of the stores and other 
places of business only emphasized the fact that 
the eneregy and thrift which was resting 
from its labors on this first day of the week 
would renew its activity on the morrow. 

The regular outline of the streets and the im- 
proved appearance of the dwellings along their 
margins served to remind the pioneer' and the 
hunter that if he wished to remain and be- 
come a component part of the community he 
must quickly assimulate himself to his sur- 
roundings and compose his manner of living 
so as to meet the requirements of the fast- 
changing order of things. 

Many did this, and planted the seeds of ge- 
nealogical trees in this soil, the branches of 
which have spread from the parent stem until, 
even at this late day, their hospitable shelter in- 
vites the repose and confidence of those seek- 
ing to rest in this land. 


284 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

Others, feeling that the restraints imposed 
upon them by the advancing civilization were 
more binding than they cared to submit to, in 
their love of personal freedom joined the van 
which was already moving father westward, 
and passed on to other scenes. 

‘‘Lizzette, Lizzette,” cried Mother Bailey, 
‘Vou lazy girl, get up and come and help to 
get breakfast; don’t you know we are going 
out to June’s today, and that we want to start 
as early as we can?” 

“All right, mother,” sounded a voice from 
the direction of Lizzette’s sleeping apartment, 
“Fm coming.” 

John had been wielding his axe very vigor- 
ously for some little time outside, and he now 
came in with a plentiful supply of wood for the 
cooking stove. 

Breakfast was soon prepared and disposed 
of, and about the middle of the forenoon the 
party of three took the road to the country. 
When they reached June’s place he was in the 
yard waiting for them. 

“How do you do, ^ Mother Bailey ; good 
morning, Lizzette; well, John, old man, Fm 
glad to see you all, walk right into the house,” 
this was June’s greeting to his guests. 

Mother Bailey answered for the whole party : 

“We are all right, and had a nice walk. You 
ain’t much changed in looks, June, since I saw 
you last night,” said she laughingly. 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 285 

'‘No,’ retorted June, “and I don’t believe 
you have lost much flesh in that time.” 

After they had talked over the current topics 
of interest, Mother Bailey remarked that she 
was going into the kitchen to see what June 
was going to give them for dinner. 

In a few moments she cried out : 

“It’s all right, June’s got everything ready, 
and nothin’ to do but start the fire, so you 
needn’t help me, Lizzette, an’ I don’t want any 
men folks a pesterin’ roun’ me; so you, Liz- 
zette, an’ June, go and tend to them flowers — 
an’ you, John, you jes step round and fetch me 
a bucket of water from the spring.” 

June and Lizzette went out into the yard, 
and Lizzette was soon on her knees by one of 
the rose bushes, which seemed to be the least 
thriftly of them all. 

She took one of the stems in her fingers and 
the leaves fell scattering to the ground. 

“Why, Mr. June, ain’t you ashamed of your- 
self to neglect this little bush so?” 

“Now, Lizzette,” responded he, ain’t you 
ashamed of yourself* f6r, not coming sooner to 
its rescue? You know that I told you if they 
got into my hands they would fare badly, and 
that I would not be answerable for the conse- 
quences. You should not reproach me, for I 
did the best I knew how for them.” 

“Well, I will not scold you this time, for I 
am afraid it was my fault more than yours.” 


286 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

“But,” insisted he, “why did you stay away 
so long?” 

The question was an embarrassing one un- 
der the circumstances. She could not truth- 
fully say that she had not anticipated it, but 
she had hoped hat he would not ask it. Of 
course she knew all along that he would think 
it strange that she had so suddenly lost inter- 
est in the flowers. 

She did not reply immediately, not know- 
ing how to answer him truthfully without tel- 
ling more than she wished to — and an untruth 
she would not tell. Then it occurred to her 
that she must gain a little more time in which 
to think, so she finally answered him by asking 
a question herself : 

“Did I not tell you that I was not coming 
out again until you came and told me that the 
flowers needed me?” 

“Yes,” he answered, “but you never thought 
it necessary for me to tell you before when they 
needed your ministrations.” 

“Now, Mr. June,” she said, “I really thought 
that the flowers had gotten a start and would 
not need so much attention, and that if they 
did not seem to be doing so well at any time, 
you would let me know.” 

She thought that she had gotten out of the 
difficulty pretty well now, but she reckoned 
without her host, for June knew, thanks to 
Mother Bailey, that she had not given him the 
real reason for her staying away, and he wish- 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 287 

ed for reasons of his own that she would tell 
him the true one. 

Possibly a man in more polished society, on 
seeing her reluctance, would not have pressed 
her for a further answer, but would have been 
content to let her know that he knew that she 
was fencing? June proposed to be very frank 
with her, and he wanted her to be frank with 
him. His was a direct nature, so he question- 
ed her again, in this manner : 

“Now, Lizzette, was that the real reason 
that you stayed away? Isn’t there some other 
which you have not told me yet?” 

He was looking at her now with that pene- 
trating glance which had never yet wavered in 
the face of man or woman, and blushing she re- 
turned the look and answered : 

“Mr. June, I wish you had not asked me 
that, but I will answer you truthfully. Yes, 
there is another reason, and, though it is very 
embarrassing for me to tell it to you, I will 
do it. I was afraid that I was coming out here 
too often and that people might misinterpret 
my motive and would talk about it.” 

She had told him the truth now and he knew 
it, and his voice took on a very tender tone as 
he said to her : 

“My dear little girl, some one has been 
saying something to you already. You never 
thought of this yourself.” 

Pretty soon he continued : 


/ 


288 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


for myself, I don’t care how much peo- 
ple talk, but they must not say anything to hurt 
you. However, I think that I understand you, 
and I would not have you do anything that 
might give the most malicious tongue an ex- 
cuse for wagging, though you might be per- 
fectly innocent in so doing.” 

Then he cried out as if he could not with- 
hold the words : 

‘Tdzzette, Lizzette — if you could care for a 
rough old feller like me, I would ask you to be 
my wife, and then you could be with your 
flowers all the time, and no one could say a 
word against it.” 

Before Lizzette could frame an answer, 
Mother Bailey called them in to dinner. 

As they walked into the house, he asked : 

“Lizzette, will you take a walk with me after 
dinner?” 

And she answered : 

“Yes, Mr. June.” 

After dinner was over and the things wash- 
ed and put away. Mother Bailey said : 

“June, if you’ll lend me a horse I’ll get John 
to take me over to Mrs. Smith’s. We won’t 
be gone long.” 

“Why, certainly. Mother Bailey, you can 
have a horse if you want one; and one for 
John, too, for that matter,” answered June. 

“No, June,” said she, “I can get up behind 
John, and we’ll travel very well that way. I 
want to see Mrs. Smith ; you know she has not 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 289 

l)een feelin' very well lately, so 1 thought that 
Fd just ride over and enquire about her.” 

'‘All right,” said June, “you women folks 
always have your own way,” and then he went 
to the stable and saddled a horse for the old 
lady. 

After they were gone, June said to Lizzette : 

“Shall we walk down to the little water fall 
on the creek?” 

When they were seated on the mossy bank 
near the fall, listening to the music of the leap' 
ing waters, he spoke : 

“Lizzette, do you know that when I walked 
into the house the last day you were out here, 
after you had gone, and found the roses you 
had placed on my supper table, I felt such a 
love for you sweep over me that I could hardly 
keep from running after you and asking you 
to come back for good. But I restrained my- 
self, and I had time to think over the matter, 
and to think of you, what a dainty piece of hu- 
manity you were, and what a rough and un- 
couth specimen I was; and I knew that I was 
not fit for you, that I did not have education 
and refinement enough, and I felt I would be 
doing you a wrong if I tried to persuade you 
to marry me, so I determined to keep silence re- 
garding my feelings for you. But this was not 
the first of it, though I knew then that I loved 
you beyond recall and that it would never be 
any other way.” 


290 IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 

After a few moments of thought he resumed : 

‘‘I did keep silence. I waited, hoping for 
your sake that something would come of Far- 
leigh’s attentions to you ; hoping that, if not, 
then that some one of those here among us, 
and who was better able than I am to surround 
you with the comforts and refinements of life, 
would be attracted by your loveliness and ask 
you to share it all with him ; but when none of 
these things happened, as I had hoped and 
planned, or when, at least, you seemed disin- 
clined to accept any such offers, if they were 
made, and when certain persons had begun to 
couple our names together, I felt that, in jus- 
tice to you, I must make you acquainted with 
the state of my feelings and offer you the hon- 
est love and protection of a rough old Indian 
fighter and trapper. 

“And now, Lizette,“ he continued, “you can 
do what you please with it. You can reject it, 
and June Stone will still be your friend, or you 
can accept it and make me the happiest man 
this side of the Alleghanys. I never made 
love before, and I know that I am making a 
bungle of it; but if you feel that you could be 
contented with such a man as I am, I know 
that Fd feel that Fd gotten more of happiness 
in this life than I could ever deserve, and a 
good deal more than generally falls to the lot 
of one man ; but Fd try, to the best of my abil- 
ity, to make you a good husband and to make 
you happy.’' 


IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF BOONE. 


291 


. And now she looked straight into his eyes, 
without a tremor of the lids, and the bine of 
her eye deepened and hlled with the light of a 
love and trust so beautiful that it illumined her 
whole countenance; and she threw her arms 
around his neck and spoke in gentlest tones 
into his ear. 

“I have loved you, June, I think, since the 
first day 1 ever saw you — and now — and now 
1 feel so safe and ha])py — and all the rest is as 
nothing.'’ 

And then, as soft as the sighing of the suni' 
mer wind, she whispered, ‘AVill you kiss me, 
dear ?” 

June pressed her to him and kissed her, for 
the first time, on the li])s. 

It was a grown man’s virgin kiss of love. 

And the glad hours sped on towards the 
close of the day, and afterwards the moon 
looked down over jiasture and forest, over 
country and town, as June walked back to his 
home from Mother Bailey’s cottage, and his 
heart was filled with peace and contentment, 
and the night air carried the news back to the 
sea, of a new empire whose star was ascendant 
in the Western sky. 


FINIS. 




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INDIANA 46962 




